Good For Nothing
by Hank's Lady
Summary: Ever wondered why Hank is so bitter and cruel and yet obviously has some goodness in his heart that he does his best not to let out? This is Hank's story, beginning with his birth.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER:- I do not own any of the Dr Quinn characters, but am merely borrowing them for an adventure of my own.

This is the story of Hank, beginning with his birth in 1835 and detailing the events prior to Dr Quinn which turn him into the man he is in the series. The story then continues through the series and a little while afterwards.

...

CHAPTER ONE

19 April 1835 – Good Friday

Margaret Lausenstrom went into labour at dawn. Her husband, Jorgen, paced the downstairs rooms of their Denver home, waiting impatiently while the housekeeper ran for the midwife in the next street. Meanwhile Jorgen's mother, Ilse, attended Margaret.

Jorgen and Margaret already had five year old twin boys, Lars and Leif and after their very difficult delivery, Margaret had been advised she would be unlikely to conceive again. Therefore her second pregnancy was something of a miracle and the baby eagerly awaited by both parents.

An hour later the midwife arrived, a large woman in her fifties, hauling herself breathlessly up the stairs. Margaret's maid showed her into the bedroom where the woman of the house writhed in agony, clinging to Ilse's hand as the labour pains wracked her body.

Time passed and the baby didn't emerge, Margaret tiring hour by hour and the two women attending her gradually realising something was wrong.

"I think you should send for a doctor," the midwife said at last. "She's exhausted and bleeding very heavily. We could lose both mother and child."

Nodding, Ilse opened the bedroom door and called out to Margaret's maid.

"Ask Mr Lausenstrom to send for the doctor," she instructed. "Tell him to hurry, please."

"Yes, Ma'am." The maid scampered off downstairs and Ilse returned to her daughter-in-law's side.

Outside, the sky turned black and rain pelted against the windows, lighting forking to the ground and thunder rumbling overhead. Ilse closed her eyes briefly, thinking of Jesus on the cross on this day hundreds of years before.

"Please God, do not take them," she whispered.

Doctor Maynard arrived in the early evening, soaked by the rain even from the brief moments it took for him to run from his carriage to the house. After a rapid examination of Margaret, he advised both she and the baby would be lost unless he delivered the child by Caesarian. The midwife carried out his instructions in preparing Margaret while he applied a cloth dampened with chloroform to her mouth and nose.

"What are you doing?" Ilse asked anxiously.

"Chloroform will make her sleep so she won't feel anything," the doctor explained.

"I have never heard of this," said Ilse.

"Its use is still in its infancy. It was discovered four years ago by one Samuel Guthrie from New York. It is of course still in its experimental stages, but if used carefully it's of great advantage in surgery. There, see? She's sleeping." Doctor Maynard removed the cloth and began taking surgical instruments from his bag. "I must hurry to save them," he said under his breath, gripping a scalpel and uncovering Margaret's lower belly.

In just brief minutes, the doctor passed a silent and still baby boy to the midwife and turned his attention back to the mother. The midwife gripped the child by the heels and smacked his rear with her other hand, causing the babe to suddenly come to life and begin yelling. She wrapped him swiftly in soft towelling and cradled him against her breast.

"A strapping little fellow," she said. "How's mother doing?"

"Not so good, I'm afraid," Doctor Maynard said, torn between stitching the patient's belly and trying to stop the uterine bleeding. "I fear we may lose her."

"Please, you must save her," whispered Ilse, dabbing at her tears with a lace hankerchief.

"Will you take the child, Ma'am?" the midwife asked, passing the small bundle to llse. "I'll try to help the doctor."

Ilse held the baby in her arms, pacing anxiously behind the doctor as he struggled to save Margaret's life. Unable to look at her daughter-in-law, she gazed into the little wrinkled red face with its tuft of blond hair and clear blue eyes, wondering what would become of him without a mother.

"I'm very sorry," Doctor Maynard said then, straightening up with a heavy sigh. "There's nothing more I can do."

"Oh! Oh, Margaret," Ilse said softly, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. Her son's wife had been such a sweet girl and a wonderful mother to the twins. "I must tell Jorgen." She handed the baby back to the midwife and sadly walked out of the room.

Jorgen was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when she descended and he could see from her face that she had unhappy news.

"Mother?" he said pleadingly.

"I am so sorry, my son," Ilse said, taking his hand. "Margaret is gone."

"No," Jorgen groaned. "No! Why did this happen?"

"Her delivery was very hard. She lost too much blood," Ilse said. "Doctor Maynard did the best he could."

"I must see her." Jorgen pulled away and moved towards the stairs, but his mother caught his arm, halting him.

"Wait. Leave them a little time to prepare her," she said.

Jorgen turned away again, running his hands through his hair and making it stand on end.

"The boys," he said suddenly. "How will I tell them?"

Lars and Leif had been visiting with their maternal grandparents, Edward and Jennifer Stirling, for the past two days, Jorgen and Margaret thinking it would be better for them not to be in the house during their mother's labour for fear her screams would distress them too much.

"I will help you, my dear," Ilse said. "We will have to tell Edward and Jennifer too."

"Dear God," uttered Jorgen.

"You have not asked about the baby," Ilse pointed out gently then. "You have a son. Will I bring him down to see you?"

"A son? He lives and yet my wife has died?" Jorgen exclaimed.

"He is a strong child, like his brothers. Like you."

"I don't want to see him," said Jorgen roughly. "Without him, Margaret would still be here." He choked back a sob.

"You cannot blame him for Margaret's passing. He is an innocent child. He is your son, Jorgen."

"Innocent? My wife is _dead_ because of him!" cried Jorgen. "I want nothing to do with him!" He swung away from her and marched into the drawing room where he poured himself a large glass of whiskey.

Sighing heavily, Ilse made her way back up the stairs. Doctor Maynard was preparing to leave and Ilse directed the midwife into the nursery where a crib awaited the baby.

"Do you know of a nursemaid?" she asked. "We will need to employ one."

"I know a pleasant lady who'll help you," the woman said at once. "I'll send her over later if you wish."

"Thank you," nodded Ilse.

It was four days before Jorgen even saw his son. He spent much of his time shut in his study at the rear of the house, leaving the care of Lars and Leif to his mother and that of the baby to the newly hired nursemaid. During that time his only company was a bottle of whiskey and he had some difficulty sobering up sufficiently to attend his wife's funeral on the Tuesday right after Easter.

During this time, the youngest Lausenstrom remained without a name until Ilse decided enough was enough and insisted on speaking to Jorgen about the child once more.

"I had planned to returned to Norway at the end of the month," she reminded him. "Would you like me to stay longer?"

"Mother, if I had my wish you would remain here forever," Jorgen said with a wan smile.

"I must return to my home eventually, but I will stay a few more weeks."

"Thank you, Mother."

"You still have not seen your new son," Ilse continued. "Nor have you named him."

Jorgen's face stiffened. "I'm not ready to think about that," he grunted. "Name him yourself if you wish."

"Are you going to ignore the child indefinitely?" Ilse pressed.

"Of course not." Jorgen turned and walked away.

Saddened, Ilse set off upstairs to the nursery to see the baby herself. What with helping to arrange the funeral and caring for Jorgen and the boys, she hadn't had time to spend with him either. Now she took him from the nursemaid and went to her room, settling herself carefully in an armchair and cradling the baby in her arms.

"What are we going to do with you, little one?" she murmured. Bright blue eyes stared up at her and softly she began to tell an old Norwegian story, knowing the child wouldn't understand a word, but would be comforted by the sound of her voice.

"Mother!" Jorgen's voice carried up the stairs and Ilse glanced at the clock, realising she had been sitting there approaching two hours.

"I am in my room," she called out. Moments later a brief tap came on the door and it swung open to admit Jorgen.

"Mother…." he began and then halted as his eyes lit on the baby. "Is that him?" He took a few steps closer and then drew his breath in sharply. "He looks like Margaret." His face contorted with pain and he backed away again.

"Jorgen, come and hold him for a while," Ilse suggested.

"Keep him out of my sight." Jorgen turned away and left the room without another word, banging the door behind him.

"He will come around," Ilse said as if to convince herself it would be true. "So, what are we going to call you?" She looked down at the baby, who despite the disturbance was now sleeping. "Hans," she murmured. "I will name you Hans."


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Ilse remained at the Lausenstrom house for more than two years. Eventually Jorgen did acknowledge he had a third son, although he rarely spent any time with the baby. It had been the same when Lars and Leif were very young, only they had their mother to care for them. Jorgen simply hadn't known what to do with two babies and had preferred to leave their care to his wife as many of his friends did.

However, with Margaret gone, Hans spent his babyhood being cared for in the main by his grandmother. Until he was weaned the nursemaid remained, but after this Ilse insisted that Jorgen would not hire another woman to care for the baby; she would do it herself rather than allow him to be raised by a stranger.

Hans' twin brothers barely paid any attention to him either in the beginning, partially influenced by their father's attitude to the baby, but also lacking any interest in a child so small that he couldn't yet play with them. Ilse, known as 'Nana' to the boys, did her best to encourage them to spend time with Hans, but was largely unsuccessful. She spent hours each day telling the baby stories and playing with him and for long periods of time she was the only person he saw. The little boy's first word was "Nana" and she rapidly became his whole world until his second birthday.

Ilse had become homesick for Norway over the past months and longed to make a visit there, even for just a short while if she was still needed in Denver, but she hadn't dared leave Hans with a father and brothers who didn't seem to care whether he was there or not. However, when the little boy turned two, she made another concerted effort to bring the family together and amid some protest, arranged a birthday picnic for the Sunday after Hans' birthday. She ordered the carriage to take the five of them out of Denver to a spot beneath some trees and close to a creek, some two miles out into the country. The cook had packed up a delicious feast in a picnic basket for the family and around mid-morning they set off.

When the carriage halted beneath the trees, Jorgen jumped down and spread out a blanket they had brought with them onto the grass in the shade of a large oak, then helped Ilse down from the carriage, Hans in her arms. Lars and Leif leapt to the ground and ran excitedly towards the creek.

"Father, may we paddle?" they cried in unison.

"Very well. Try not to get wet," Jorgen agreed, lifting the picnic basket down from the carriage too and setting it on the blanket.

The two boys quickly unlaced their boots, rolled up their pants' legs as high as they could manage and eagerly waded into the water. Ilse sat down on the blanket and entertained Hans while Jorgen sat close by, watching the twins as they played in the creek and as usual paying little attention to anything Hans did. An hour later, Ilse unpacked the food and called the boys out of the water to eat. Everyone tucked into cold roast turkey, potato salad, meat pie, fruit pie, cake and other items until virtually nothing was left. Ilse had carefully hidden away a large slice of the cake with its sweet white frosting, knowing the boys would want another treat later.

After the feast, Lars and Leif returned to the creek for another game and Ilse leaned against the tree trunk, her stomach full and her eyelids drooping, the sun blazing down through the branches and eventually causing her to doze off. Relaxed for once, Jorgen removed his jacket, loosened his necktie and lay back on the blanket, his hands behind his head, staring up at the bright blue sky and wishing for the thousandth time that Margaret was there to share the moment with them. He squeezed his eyes shut, picturing her beautiful face, remembering the time they had spent together before she was cruelly snatched from him two years before. Would he ever be able to move on from her death?

Jorgen opened his eyes again slowly and watched Lars and Leif as they played and splashed, almost opening his mouth to shout at them for getting their clothes damp, but then relenting. He was aware he hadn't been much of a father to them since he had lost their mother. He'd done his best, but there had been no fun and games, no days out like this. He had always been a strict parent, but had still wanted the boys to enjoy themselves, even joining in with ball games on occasion when they were younger. He smiled a little wistfully as the two seven-year-olds tried a new game; climbing out of the water onto the bank and then taking flying leaps into the water to see how far across the creek they could get.

"Nana." Hans tugged at Ilse's skirt impatiently as she slept, bored with sitting still and wanting someone to talk to him. When there was no response, he tried again, pulling harder at the soft grey fabric of the dress. "Nana!"

In deep slumber, Ilse didn't stir. Jorgen glanced briefly towards them, noticing his youngest son sitting on the blanket beside his mother, his bottom lip sticking out in a pout of disappointment. Jorgen turned his attention back to the two boys in the creek and once again forgot about Hans. Eventually he too closed his eyes and dozed.

Having failed to get any response from his Nana, Hans turned his head from one side to the other, looking for something else to occupy him. His eyes fell upon his father, lying close by with his eyes closed, looking as grim and unapproachable in sleep as he did when awake. Even at such a young age he knew that any interruption wouldn't be appreciated and he got to his feet and watched his brothers for a moment as they started to build a dam in the creek with stones and fallen tree branches. He began to toddle towards them, thinking that the game looked like fun.

Lars and Leif raised their heads as one and watched their little brother approaching the shallow bank, surprised when he bent to pick up a large pebble and tossed it into the water where it landed on the pile of other stones they had gathered to make the dam.

"That's it, Hans," Leif said. "You can join in."

"Better take his shoes off, Father will go mad if he gets wet," Lars said and waded to the bank. "Sit down, Hans."

Hans plopped down onto his rear, starting to grin as Lars unfastened his shoes and pulled his socks off.

"There, now you can paddle."

Realising that Hans had probably grown up enough to join in their game at least a little, the older boys became more willing to accommodate him. Lars lifted him off the bank and placed him carefully on his feet in the shallow water.

"Be careful, don't fall down," Leif said, picking up a small boulder to add to the dam. "See if you can find some more stones and put them here, like this."

In less than an hour, the dam was complete, the water still finding a way to trickle through in places, but a large part of it becoming held up behind the heaps of stones, branches and mud. A deeper pool began to form and seeing their father and grandmother were both sleeping, Lars and Leif took the opportunity to strip down to their underwear and throw themselves bodily into the water. It wasn't really deep enough or wide enough to swim, but they could wallow and splash around.

Isle opened her eyes slowly, disoriented for a moment until she remembered they had all been having a picnic and that the heat from the sun must have sent her to sleep. She glanced over at her son where he lay sleeping and smiled to herself. Then her eyes lit on the blanket beside her where Hans had been playing. He was gone.

"Hans?" She pushed herself away from the tree trunk and sat up straight. She immediately caught sight of three blond heads just visible above the bank of the creek and heaved a sigh of relief, both that Hans was safe and that his brothers were spending time with him. Perhaps the picnic had been a success after all. She set about packing away the picnic things to save time later, leaving the three boys to their game.

"Nana, is there any cake left?" Lars asked suddenly, appearing at her side. Leif was close behind.

"Just a little piece. Where is Hans?"

"Paddling. He's alright," Leif said.

"He is too little to be left alone in the water," Ilse said anxiously. "Go and fetch him at once. Then you may all have a piece of cake."

Reluctantly the twins turned away and went back to the creek.

"Hans?" both of them said. "Hans, where are you?"

Ilse rose slowly to her feet, her heart thumping as she peered towards the water. There was no sign of Hans at all. Had he climbed out and wandered away?

"He's not there, Nana," Lars said as the pair walked back towards her.

"Jorgen, wake up!" Ilse exclaimed. She began to hurry to the creek herself, noticing that the boys' dam had been so effective that the water was almost up to the bank. Then much to her horror, Hans' head popped up across the other side of the man-made pool. He let out a choking squeal and then disappeared again.

"_Jorgen!_" Ilse screamed. "Hans is drowning!"

Jorgen jerked out of sleep and scrambled to his feet, his eyes first landing on the terrified white face of his mother, then his two sons, clad in only their underwear and soaking wet from head to foot. He swivelled towards the creek and caught a glimpse of the bright blue shirt Hans was wearing. For a brief moment he remained rooted to the spot, then his legs began to carry him towards the water before his brain had even engaged properly.

Lars and Leif watched in astonishment as their smart and proper father leapt off the bank, landing almost thigh deep in the water, trousers, shoes and all, and waded towards the floundering toddler, snatching him up in an instant and holding him tight to his chest, seemingly unconcerned that his crisp white shirt and dark grey vest were instantly sodden.

"Oh, dear God!" gasped Jorgen, patting the boy's back as he gasped and choked. He remained standing in the middle of the pool as he soothed the screaming child, his own heart thumping with shock and remorse.

"Margaret, can you ever forgive me?" he said under his breath.

Gradually Hans stopped spluttering and instead began to sob loudly, more concerned now at being grabbed by this virtual stranger who had all but ignored him up to this point.

"Nana!" he screamed, waving his arms towards his grandmother and struggling with all his might to extricate himself from Jorgen's grasp.

Jorgen waded slowly to the bank now and climbed out, heading towards his mother. He passed the boy to her at once, relieved when the screams instantly subsided although the terrible feeling of guilt in him remained.

"I'm so sorry, Mother," he said. "I've been a callous fool. Margaret would be ashamed."

Ilse smiled up at him. "Do not be too hard on yourself. Today you have turned a corner. Things will get easier now."

Jorgen nodded sadly and turned towards the twins. "Boys, go and break up that dam before it floods the whole county. Then we're going home."

Lars and Leif returned to the creek without a word and quickly dismantled the dam, then took off their soaked underclothes and pulled their shirts and pants onto their damp bodies, expecting their father to chastise them at any moment, first for getting wet and secondly for stripping to their skin outdoors. However, Jorgen remained silent and went to gather up Hans' shoes and socks from the bank, then stood watching while Ilse undressed the little boy and wrapped him in her shawl.

Jorgen rolled up the picnic blanket and placed that and the picnic basket into the carriage, then helped his mother into it. The boys climbed up and sat opposite, leaving Jorgen to take his place beside Ilse. He sat in silence, glancing frequently at Ilse as she held Hans on her lap, seemingly none the worse for his ducking in the creek. It was a great surprise to everyone when he reached down, opened up the basket and took out the last piece of cake, breaking off a chunk for each of the twins.

"Aren't you worried about crumbs, Father?" Leif asked, amazed that they were being invited to eat in the carriage and without even a plate.

"I think after today we can all agree there are more important things than a few crumbs," Jorgen said quietly. He held the last piece of cake out towards Hans. Hans stared back from wide eyes, not at the cake, but at Jorgen's face. The tall blond man with the stern face had never given him anything, not even his time.

"It's alright, Hans, you can have it," Jorgen said.

Two small hands reached out at last and took the piece of cake.

"Say 'thank you', Hans," Ilse reminded him.

"Fankoo," said Hans and began to cram the cake into his mouth with both hands.

Ilse looked over at her son and smiled warmly.

"You are all going to be alright," she said. "Margaret would be proud."


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Jorgen gradually began to make more of an effort with all three boys although he was a long way from being an ideal father. In turn his own father had been a distant figure in his life until he reached the age of ten, he being raised mainly by his mother and a nanny until then. Now faced with three young boys, one of whom was still a baby, he stumbled frequently as he learned to deal with them, helped by Ilse while she planned her rapidly approaching trip home to Norway in August. She intended to be away at least three months and Jorgen looked forward to her departure date with increasing dread.

Ilse left Denver on the second Saturday in August on a train bound for New York, where she would board a ship to cross the Atlantic Ocean to Norway. The rest of the family stood on the platform watching the train carry her away, Lars and Leif silent and sulky, Hans too little yet to understand that his beloved Nana was leaving for some months, but sensing the sombreness of the others and sucking his thumb tearfully as Jorgen held him grimly in one arm and wondered how in the world he was going to manage alone until his mother returned.

The remainder of the weekend proved to be a nightmare for all concerned, with Jorgen forced to rope in the housekeeper when Hans sobbed and screamed until he was hoarse. Meanwhile the twins who were usually as thick as thieves, squabbled and fought and finished by breaking the water jug in their room, Lars cutting his hand on the jagged china. The doctor was sent for to suture the gash and the cook provided cakes to tempt the children into a better temper, which ordinarily would have worked, but now did little to fill the enormous gap left by Ilse.

Later the twins caused more havoc in refusing to go to bed, Lars wailing over his sore hand and Leif complaining that his brother was receiving all the attention. Hans, for once, simply slept, exhausted from his earlier misery.

With similar events continuing on a daily basis, Jorgen survived only until a letter came from New York from Ilse, advising that she had arrived safely and that by the time he received her note, would no doubt be over halfway to Bergen in Norway by steamship. Since she had left Denver Jorgen had struggled on, thinking that the children would get used to her absence and that he would get used to them, but despite Lars and Leif doing their best to help when they weren't at school, nothing he did would keep Hans from screaming half the day and night for Nana. The arrival of Ilse's letter only reminded him how far away she was and how long it would be before she came back. He ordered the housekeeper to find a nanny and quickly.

Three days later, Mrs Jennifer Harrington was appointed; a severe lady in her fifties, widowed and with three grown up children who had long since left home. She wore her hair pinned back tightly from her face into a bun and dressed in various shades of grey with little white lace collars. She was of the same opinion as Jorgen, that children should be seen and not heard, should obey their parents and respect their elders and she took over the care of the three at once, moving into one of the empty rooms on the second floor of the house, her contract being temporary pending the return of Ilse. She was perfectly happy with the arrangement and Jorgen in addition advised the staff that Mrs Harrington had full authority to make any decisions she wished regarding the children.

Lars and Leif instantly hated the woman and feared that she was to permanently take the place of Nana. They were used to the strictness of their father and his occasional physical punishments should they deserve it, but having a complete stranger come into their home and proceed to lay down the law irritated both. Mrs Harrington's punishments when required, or sometimes for no apparent reason, ranged from the tweaking of ears to the slapping of hands, legs or rears and on the occasions Jorgen saw this taking place he condoned it, assuming the boys must have been defying the woman to earn it.

The twins, who had never really taken to Hans with the exception of the picnic, instantly became more protective of him when Mrs Harrington's method of keeping him quiet was to ignore his cries and leave him shut in the nursery. On these occasions, one boy would do something to annoy the nanny, causing her to begin one of her lengthy lectures or some form of punishment, thus keeping her occupied while the other would sneak into the nursery and comfort their little brother.

Jorgen did his best to be a father on Sundays, taking the boys to church and then arranging ball games or sometimes a picnic as his mother had done, but always with Mrs Harrington in attendance. However, everyone heaved a sigh of relief when a letter finally arrived from Ilse in the early part of December to tell them she was coming home.

"Does the return of your mother mean my services will no longer be required?" Mrs Harrington asked Jorgen primly after he read the contents of the letter to everyone. Unseen by the adults, Lars and Leif exchanged hopeful glances.

"I'd be grateful if you'd stay at least until after her arrival," Jorgen said. "It may be that Mrs Lausenstrom would prefer to look for her own home. She always expressed a wish to move out of Denver to a village at some stage and I really don't like to continue burdening her with the children at her age."

"Of course, Mr Lausenstrom, I'll stay on as long as you need me," said Mrs Harrington.

Lars rolled his eyes up into his head and Leif, standing slightly behind the nanny and therefore out of her sight, stuck his tongue out. Unfortunately Hans, who faced her, copied his brother and instantly incurred the wrath of both the insulted nanny and his father at his poor manners, who had apparently both forgotten he was still some months from his third birthday and should be forgiven at least some misdemeanors.

Ilse finally returned the day before Christmas Eve, the station buggy filled with luggage mostly containing gifts for the family. Rather than send a message from the station, she arrived unannounced during dinner to witness Mrs Harrington slapping Leif's hand for not using his knife and fork properly and chastising Hans for daring to say he didn't like the cauliflower on his plate.

"Jorgen! What is going on here?" she demanded from the dining room door.

"Nana!" Lars leapt up from the table and flung himself at her immediately, while Leif paused briefly to snatch Hans from his chair before joining them. Mrs Harrington's protests at their lack of manners fell on deaf ears as Ilse hugged first one twin and then the other before picking Hans up and cuddling him.

Jorgen now rose quickly too and greeted his mother before introducing the nanny.

"Mrs Harrington has been a great help with the children," he said.

"By slapping them?" Ilse demanded sharply.

"Children need a firm hand," Mrs Harrington replied.

"They need guidance, not violence," Ilse said in a low voice. "Jorgen, be good enough to have my luggage sent up to my room. I will be staying, at least until Hans starts school. Mary!" She now summoned the cook and the red-faced woman appeared quickly, beaming from ear to ear.

"Mrs Lausenstrom! I'm so happy to see you home, Ma'am."

"Thank you, Mary. Please have some tea and cake brought up to the nursery. Be generous with the cake. I intend to spend a little time with my boys. Jorgen, I will talk with you after they go to bed. In the meantime, perhaps you would like to consider your staffing arrangements." With that she turned and made for the stairs with Hans in her arms, the twins following closely with wide smiles on their faces.

Mary delivered tea, lemonade and two different kinds of cake to the nursery minutes later and Ilse seated herself in her favourite chair with Hans on her lap, cramming cake into his mouth and scattering crumbs onto her dress. She brushed them off absently and looked down at Lars and Leif where they sat on the rug in front of her.

"Now, will you tell me what has been happening while I have been away?" she said. "How long has this Mrs Harrington been here?"

Lars and Leif began to talk rapidly, one continuing each time the other paused.

"She came right after Father got your letter. He said he couldn't cope….."

"…She's horrible, she locks Hans in the nursery when he cries…"

"…and slaps us for _everything_. Sometimes she slaps us even when we haven't….."

"…..done anything!"

"Alright, ssshhhh," Ilse interrupted, horrified. "Do not worry, today was Mrs Harrington's last day of work in this house."

"Father likes her," Leif said.

"They both say the same thing. Spare the rod and spoil the child. What does that mean, Nana?" said Lars.

"It is something adults say to excuse them when they hit their children," Ilse said, frowning. "So, tell me what else you have been doing? Are you doing well in school?"

Lars shrugged. "Alright, I suppose. It's better than being at home."

"Well, things will change tomorrow," said Ilse firmly.

"Father said you might not want to live here anymore," Leif said.

"He said you want to move away from Denver," added Lars.

"It is true, I have always thought of leaving this big town," Ilse nodded. "But not yet. As I said downstairs, I will be here for a few years yet."

Mrs Harrington left the house later that evening. By the time the children were in bed and Ilse returned downstairs for her discussion with Jorgen, the nanny had packed her belongings and the carriage was waiting outside to take her to her daughter's house. She accepted her severance pay from Jorgen and walked out without another word.

Tired as she was from her long journey by ship and train, Ilse spent some time talking to her son before going to bed. She couldn't hide her disappointment that he had hired someone to do his job and worse, a woman like Mrs Harrington. Jorgen argued that it was his own decision how he ran his house and raised his family, but admitted he was relieved his mother had returned.

As promised, the following day everything changed, beginning with a wonderful Christmas Eve supper and vast gift-opening session, mostly of parcels brought from Norway by Ilse. She had even remembered the housekeeper and cook and both were delighted with the warm Norwegian shawls and cosy slippers she had bought them. For Jorgen she brought a silk cravat and hankerchiefs and some books by his favourite authors. The boys were the most spoiled with clothes and a vast array of new toys and sweets.

"Mother, you spoil them far too much," protested Jorgen quietly.

"Perhaps you spoil them far too little," she replied under her breath. "A certain amount of spoiling never hurt anyone. You did not come to a great deal of harm from it."

Jorgen had to admit that his memories of his childhood were only good and his mother's method of raising him had certainly not done him any harm. Perhaps he had been too hard on the boys and he decided to do his best to begin the New Year differently and aim to be the best father he could.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Jorgen's attitude towards the children certainly improved things in the Lausenstrom house and the next few years passed happily enough. Lars and Leif were good students in school and when Hans joined them aged five and a half, it seemed in the beginning that he would follow in their footsteps.

Ilse finally moved out of the house a few weeks later, finding a small house in a village twenty miles away which suited her perfectly. Her neighbours were an elderly couple and a young family and much as she regretted leaving 'her boys', her new home away from the bustle of the rapidly growing Denver was her dream come true. Every two weeks she would write a letter to Jorgen and a separate one to the boys and Lars and Leif would write one back between them, telling her of their achievements in school and other adventures.

After the first few weeks in school, it became clear that Hans wasn't about to copy his brothers and become a fine student – he hated school. There were two classrooms, one for those up to age ten and one for the older children. Lars and Leif had just moved into the upper class and were mixing with others their own age so took little notice of Hans after his first week, assuming he would find his own friends.

Hans was the only new child in the lower class at the time and was immediately picked on by a group of four seven-year-old boys for a number of reasons – he was new, he was the youngest, he looked like a sissy with his pale blond hair and smart clothes, he didn't know anything and his family were _immigrants_. There were a hundred and one reasons for the other boys to tease and taunt him and he spent the breaks between lessons and the lunch period sitting alone in a corner of the school yard, wishing he could escape. He never said a word to Lars and Leif – they had only recently began to include him more in their games at home and he thought a display of weakness would make them shun him once again.

"Hey! Lausenstrom!"

"Oh, no," Hans muttered under his breath as the four older boys sauntered towards him. He was just about to begin eating the lunch the cook had packed up for him and he knew at once that he would be going home hungry for the third time that week.

"What have you got there?" one of the boys, a redhead known as Thomas, demanded, towering over him.

"Stand up when we're speaking to you!" another exclaimed.

Hans scrambled to his feet, clutching the package containing fresh bread and butter with cheese and a piece of cook's best cherry cake. Thomas immediately snatched the things from him and unwrapped them.

"Ooh, sandwiches. Aren't we posh!"

"Is that cake? Give me that!" another of the boys said, grabbing the cherry cake and shoving the whole slice into his mouth, barely able to close his lips around it.

Hans stared up at them, wishing he was bigger. He would have loved to be able to knock them all to the ground, one by one. All he could do was watch as Thomas dropped the bread and cheese onto the ground and stamped on each piece.

"Hey, wonder if he's got any money," one of the others who hadn't yet spoken now said. He and Thomas immediately grabbed Hans by the arms while the cake-eater checked his pockets and discovered the two five-cent pieces he had in his jacket.

"Is that _all_?" scoffed Thomas. "Thought you were a rich kid?"

"He is rich. Everyone knows the Lausenstroms live in that big house with the fence around."

"I'm not rich," Hans said. "I just get an allowance."

"Ooh, an allowance! Well, your father's rich. Listen, Lausenstrom. You better fetch some money tomorrow, then maybe we'll leave you alone to eat your fancy cake," Thomas grinned.

"Yeah, bring a dollar," one of the others said. "A quarter for each of us, right, Thomas?"

"Right."

"I can't do that," Hans protested.

"Yeah, you can. Your father won't even miss it."

"You better. Or else!" Thomas added threateningly, prodding Hans hard in the chest. The four then turned away and walked off, laughing.

Hans stayed where he was, wondering whether to tell his brothers what happened and immediately deciding against it. They would probably think he was pathetic for not being able to stand up for himself.

The school bell rang to announce the start of afternoon lessons and Hans reluctantly returned to his classroom, slumping in his seat at the back. The schoolteacher, Miss Rivers, a prim middle-aged lady not dissimilar to Mrs Harrington, was teaching sums and Hans tuned out her voice and thought about how he was going to get his hands on a dollar before school the next day.

"Hans Lausenstrom! I asked you a question!" Miss Rivers' sharp voice penetrated his thoughts suddenly and he looked up from the desk.

"Sorry, Miss Rivers."

"I asked, if I have two apples on my desk and a pupil brings me another apple, how many apples will I have?"

"I don't know, Miss."

"Well, then, pay attention! You will stay after class this afternoon for some extra tuition. You've been in this school over a month now and appear to have learned nothing!" Miss Rivers said severely.

"I can't stay, Miss, my father will be mad," Hans replied.

"Then I will write a letter for you to take home to him and I shall point out that you'll be required to stay back tomorrow as well for talking back to your teacher!"

"Yes, Miss." Hans sighed heavily and the minute Miss Rivers turned her attention to another pupil, he returned to his thoughts. How to obtain a dollar for the bullies and how to get around his father when he read the teacher's letter that night. How he hated school.

At the end of the lesson when the other children had all left, Miss Rivers left the classroom for a moment and actually handed a letter to Lars, explaining that Hans was required to stay after class and that he should take the letter explaining his lateness to his father. Miss Rivers then returned and proceeded to give Hans a further hour's mathematics instruction.

By the time the boy arrived home, the table was set for dinner and the delicious smell of roast chicken wafted from the kitchen. Hans, having not eaten since breakfast, couldn't wait for dinner, but was immediately summoned to the drawing room by a very angry father.

"Hans! Come here!"

He walked slowly into the room. "Yes, Father?"

"I have a letter here from Miss Rivers. You were kept behind for not paying attention in her lesson and will be kept behind tomorrow for answering back. What have you to say for yourself?"

"Sorry, Father," Hans muttered.

"You weren't brought up to be rude to your elders! I hope you apologised to Miss Rivers."

"Yes, Father."

"Go to your room. There will be no supper for you tonight. I want you to stay there until the morning and take the time to think about your failings. I shall expect an improved report from Miss Rivers the next time I hear from her."

"Yes, Father."

"Go."

Hans left the room, his heart sinking. He didn't care that his father was mad or that he had to stay back from school again tomorrow. Or even that somehow he had to find the money for the bullies or face them without it. The only thing he could think of at that moment was that cook was about to serve up roast chicken, potatoes, dumplings and gravy and he was to go to bed starving without a single bite.

However, just over an hour later as Hans lay on his bed, bored and with a rumbling and empty stomach, Leif tiptoed into the room. Hans sat up at once and opened his mouth to speak.

"Sshhh. Father will skin me if he finds out," Leif whispered, handing a small package wrapped in a napkin to Hans. "Sorry it's cold. See you tomorrow." He crept out again and closed the door.

"Thanks," Hans said to the empty room, unfolding the napkin. Inside was a thick slice of chicken and a soft fat dumpling with gravy soaked into its underside. He didn't waste any time gobbling the items down and even licked the remnants of gravy off the napkin before screwing up the cloth and throwing it underneath the bed. No longer starving hungry, he put his mind to working out how to deal with the four bullies the next day.

Hans woke up early. It was pitch dark and the house was silent. Not even the cook and housekeeper were yet out of bed and Hans pulled open his bedroom door quietly and slipped out onto the landing. He could hear gentle snoring coming from behind his father's door and no sound at all from the twins' room. He made his way silently downstairs and into his father's study situated at the back of the house. He knew there was a box in the desk drawer with some notes and loose change in it and the boys were probably right; his father wouldn't even miss a dollar.

Hans pulled the drawer open carefully and lifted the box out onto the top of the desk. It was locked, but the key simply protruded from the lock, waiting to be turned. Hans opened it and looked in. Some little wooden partitions inside divided the box into compartments, one of which was full of quarters. He recognised them immediately because Lars and Leif were given one every Friday to spend on toys and sweets. It seemed like a huge amount of money to Hans, who received two five-cent pieces each week. He picked out four of the coins and then closed the box again and turned the key. As he lifted the box to return it to the drawer, the key worked itself free and tumbled to the floor, bouncing and sliding on the polished wooden floor and creating what seemed to Hans like a tremendous noise. He froze, his heart hammering and waited to see if he had been heard.

After a minute nothing happened and he heaved a sigh of relief, placed the box in the drawer, picked up the key and stuck it in the lock, closed the drawer and tiptoed out of the study. He pulled the door closed and turned towards the stairs, coming face to face with his father.

"What are you doing?" Jorgen asked quietly.

"Umm…n-nothing, Father," stammered Hans, holding his hands behind his back with the quarters clutched in one of them.

"You took something from the study?"

"N-no, Father," Hans lied, wondering if he could drop the traitorous coins on the floor and get away with it. The hallway floor was wood too and they would bounce and roll.

"Show me."

Hans stuck out one empty hand, keeping the other behind his back. Impatiently Jorgen bent and grasped his other arm, jerking it up and prising open his fingers to reveal the four coins clutched there. Without a word, Jorgen gripped the boy's wrist and headed back into the study, closing the door behind them and lighting a lamp quickly. He placed the coins carefully on the desk and then bent again so that his face was level with Hans'.

"As if behaving badly in school isn't enough – now you're lying and stealing? What's wrong with you?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry, Father," Hans said in a small voice.

"What did you want this money for? Haven't you an explanation?"

"No, Father."

"Going without supper is apparently not a severe enough punishment," Jorgen said grimly. "You've been having things too easily. It's a shame I listened to your grandmother and got rid of Mrs Harrington; with her here we wouldn't have any of this kind of behaviour." Still gripping Hans by the arm, he turned the boy away from him, yanked up his nightshirt and delivered a swift and painful slap to his rear. Hans sank his teeth into his lip hard rather than scream and annoy his father even more. A second slap followed the first and then another. Jorgen stopped after three and straightened up.

"Get to your room," he ordered. "I don't want to hear a sound out of you for the rest of the night."

Hans left the study, his rear and the top of his legs stinging from the slaps and silent tears rolling down his cheeks as he crept up the stairs to his room. He lay awake until it was time to get up, dreading having to go to school and face the four boys. He knew he would have to wait until the lunch break to find out what they would do to him; they wouldn't come near him before the morning lessons because he walked to school with his brothers.

Several times on the way to school Hans almost told Lars and Leif about the bullies, until halfway there they suddenly revealed their father had told them what Hans had been caught doing during the night.

"How could you steal from our own father?" Leif demanded.

"What's wrong with you?" added Lars.

"I can't believe you're our brother," Leif sneered. "No Lausenstrom is a thief."

"What would Nana say?" said Lars.

"Don't tell her, please!" Hans begged.

"She'd be so ashamed of you," Leif said.

"I'll never do it again. Please don't tell Nana," cried Hans.

"What are you going to give us to keep quiet?" asked Lars.

"I haven't got anything."

"Your allowance. It's Friday tomorrow. You can give us your allowance tomorrow and next week," Leif said.

"Then we'll _consider_ not telling Nana one of her grandsons is a _thief_," added Lars.

"Alright," Hans sighed. "Anything you say." Asking them for help with the bullies was now clearly out of the question.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

The morning lessons went by far too quickly for Hans and suddenly he was out in the yard, watching the other children enjoying their lunch break and waiting with dread for Thomas and his friends to come and find him as he knew they would. He sat alone for some time and would have had the opportunity to eat his lunch, only he had no appetite for it at all that day. Sure enough, the four boys appeared halfway through the break, hands in their pockets, looking casual and smiling. Hans got to his feet so as to feel at less of a disadvantage.

"Got our money, Lausenstrom?" Thomas asked.

"No."

"What did you say?" Thomas frowned.

"He said no," one of the other boys replied. "Where is it? You know what we said yesterday."

"My father caught me," admitted Hans.

Thomas laughed. "You got caught stealing? Ha!"

"You're pathetic," one of the other boys scoffed.

"Yeah, who's stupid enough to get caught? Hope you got thrashed for it!"

"Thing is, now we're going to have to punish you, since you haven't got our money."

"What shall we do, spank his backside? Bet that's what your father did, isn't it, Lausenstrom? Spanked you like the little baby you are."

"I think we ought to teach him to grow up." Thomas threw a punch suddenly; not a hard one, but his fist struck Hans in the jaw and made him stagger backwards against the fence. "Bet you don't even know how to fight, do you?"

The other boys laughed and one of them punched Hans in the side of the head, only hard enough to push him off balance, but it hurt none the less. He raised his hands to try to protect himself, causing all four boys to laugh louder. Two of them grabbed him by the arms and held him still while Thomas hit him hard in the stomach. Hans doubled over, gasping, unable to get his breath and trying not to be sick or cry and give them something else to taunt him about.

"Hey! What're y'all doin' to that kid?" a voice exclaimed suddenly.

The four bullies paused and turned to view the owner of the voice. Hans raised his head slowly, struggling to breathe. Behind Thomas stood a dark-haired boy, taller even than Lars and Leif although Hans knew he couldn't be older than ten because he was in the same class as himself. He sat at the back in the opposite corner to Hans.

"Mind your own business," Thomas said now.

"'Tis my business. I like seein' a good fight, but this ain't a fair match. Why don't ya pick on someone yer own size?"

"Why don't you go to hell?" retorted Thomas.

The tall boy responded by suddenly smashing his fist into Thomas' face, knocking the boy to the ground. Hans' mouth fell open and he took a step back as the two holding his arms let go and turned on the intruder. One of them was instantly punched twice with first one fist and then the other, dropping him to his knees. The remaining two began to back away at once.

"Where are you going, you cowards?" cried Thomas, scrambling to his feet, blood oozing from his split lip.

"You're the coward." The dark boy grabbed Thomas by the shoulder. "You only go for somebody half yer size if yer yella. Ya touch this kid again and ya'll get more than a split lip."

Much to Hans' surprise, Thomas and his three friends all retreated without a word. At that moment Miss Rivers appeared from the school building and took a quick look around the yard. Hans wondered if Thomas and the others would go and tell her what had happened, but they walked off in the other direction.

"Y'alright?"

Hans looked up at his rescuer. His dark shaggy hair looked as if it hadn't been cut in a year or two and he had startling bright turquoise eyes in a pale face.

"Yes. Thanks," he said.

"What's yer name? Lausenstrom, ain't it?"

"Yes. Hans."

"I'm Billy Jenkins."

"How old are you?" asked Hans, imagining he had to be ten at least, maybe even older despite being in the lower class.

"Eight." He grinned and revealed both his front teeth were missing. "My Ma says I must sleep with my feet in pig-shit to grow this much."

Hans giggled. "I'm six," he said. "Almost."

"Them twins in the other class yer brothers?" asked Billy.

"Yes, Lars and Leif."

"Why don't ya tell 'em what happened?"

"I'm in trouble at home," Hans sighed. "My father caught me stealing and my brothers found out so they're all mad at me right now."

"What about yer ma?"

"I don't have a mother; she died when I was born," Hans said.

"Sorry. Well, I ain't got a pa. It's always just been Ma and me."

"What happened to your…..pa?" asked Hans. "Did he die too?"

Billy shrugged. "Dunno. Ma don't even know who he is. She's a whore, see. She says he could be just about any fella in town."

"What's a whore?" asked Hans, eyes wide with shock now.

"She entertains fellas for money," Billy said matter-of-factly. "She always said she got unlucky one day when she got pregnant and the only lucky thing about it was the kid turned out to be me." He grinned. "Ya got any friends, Hans?"

"No." Hans shook his head.

"Now ya do." Billy stuck his hand out and after a moment's hesitation, Hans shook it and then turned reluctantly as the school bell rang.

"What're ya doin' after school?" Billy asked him as they headed towards the building.

"I have to stay behind for talking back to Miss Rivers."

"Oh, yeah, 'course." Billy shrugged. "Guess I'll catch ya tomorrow then. Ya wanna learn to fight?"

"Yes!" Hans said at once, thinking that if he could even learn to defend himself he wouldn't have to worry about being cornered by those bullies again.

Billy grinned again and Hans' eyes were drawn back to the huge gap in his teeth.

"Did you lose your teeth fighting?" he asked in awe.

"Nah. They was just my baby teeth, they was ready to fall out. See ya later."

By the time Hans arrived home that afternoon he had apparently been forgiven at least by his father for the previous night's transgressions. In Jorgen's view, Hans had been punished for his crime and it was now over. The twins didn't see it quite like that however and barely spoke to Hans for the next few days, even pointing out after church on Sunday that the commandment 'thou shalt not steal' no doubt meant that God was less than happy with Hans at that moment and he had better be on his best behaviour in the future. Unconcerned, Hans behaved himself until after Sunday lunch when the boys were allowed out to play or visit their friends; then he set off to meet Billy as arranged at school on Friday.

Billy met Hans at the halfway point between their two houses and then took the smaller boy back to his home. He and his mother lived in a tiny tumbledown two-room house on the edge of town.

"Is your mother home?" Hans asked as they approached the house.

"Yeah, she don't go to work till 'bout eight."

"At _night_?"

Billy grinned. "She works in the saloon around the corner and it don't get busy till then. She gets home in the night when I'm sleepin'. Most of em' have to live there, but they let her stay here 'cause of me." He shoved the door open and stepped straight into the tiny parlour with a stove in the corner. "Ma!"

The door leading into the other room opened and Billy's mother appeared. She was wearing a deep purple gown with a low neck and short sleeves, her black hair cascading to her waist, bright blue eyes emphasised by some kind of smokey colouring and lips painted red.

"Ma, this is Hans," Billy said.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mrs Jenkins," Hans said politely, eyes wide. He felt as if he had stepped into a whole new world.

"Pleased to meet you too," she said at once, eyes sparkling as she bent to shake Hans by the hand. "Just call me Miss Lillian, honey, I ain't married."

"Yes, Miss Lillian." Hans couldn't stop looking at her, with the rich colour of her dress and her beautiful hair all loose and silky and her graceful way of moving about. He thought she barely looked any older than one of their neighbour's daughters who had just had her eighteenth birthday.

Billy later revealed his mother was in fact twenty-four years old and was constantly searching for non-existent grey hairs and worrying that she was beginning to look old.

"Old?" Hans said in surprise. "My father's old – he's forty. Your mother looks young like a girl."

Billy grinned. "I'll tell her ya said that, it'll make her day."

Hans stayed at the Jenkins house for the rest of the afternoon, Billy teaching him how to throw punches at a cushion he held up at eye level. Hans pretended the cushion was Thomas' face and that every somewhat feeble punch drew blood.

"I'll never be any good at this," he sighed eventually, his arms aching.

"Yeah, ya will, ya just need to keep practisin'," Billy said. "Hey, ya wanna go get candy?"

"Umm….I haven't any money," Hans confessed uncomfortably.

"Thought ya was a rich kid," Billy smiled.

"I get an allowance on Fridays, but I had to give it to Lars and Leif so they wouldn't tell my Nana I stole," Hans said, feeling more ashamed than he had done at being caught in the beginning.

"Y'oughta tell 'em blackmail's as bad as stealin'," Billy said with a shrug. "I got money, Ma gives me an allowance an' all." He opened the door again and they headed out into the street. "What d'ya like best? Gum drops or taffy?"

"Gum drops," Hans said at once.

"Me too. Taffy's good for pullin' loose teeth out though!"

By the time Hans returned home the cook was in the process of laying out supper, a light meal of sandwiches and cakes usually eaten in the evening after the heavy Sunday lunch. Full of gum drops, Hans didn't have much of an appetite, but ate anyway rather than admit how much sugar he had eaten. His father always restricted the amount of candy he and his brothers were allowed, saying it would rot their teeth.

"So, who's your new friend?" Jorgen asked as they all sat at the table.

"His name's Billy Jenkins. He's eight," Hans said. Lars and Leif looked at each other, but said nothing.

"Jenkins. I don't think I know that family," Jorgen mused.

"His mother's a…" Hans paused, somehow aware that the word 'whore' wasn't one it would be wise to use in front of his father. "….on her own," he finished. "Billy doesn't talk about his father, I think he must have died or something." A little white lie won't matter, he thought.

Lars and Leif exchanged glances at this point and then looked at Hans, eyebrows raised. He hadn't been sure if they knew anything about Billy or not, but apparently they did. He stared back at them and much to his surprise, neither one said anything.

"Oh. Well, I'm glad you're finally settling in at school," Jorgen said. "Perhaps you can invite Billy for supper one Saturday. Just make sure you put as much effort into your work as you do in making friends."

"Yes, Father."

Jorgen said nothing more on the subject, but Lars and Leif did after supper when the three boys were upstairs getting ready for bed.

"Hans, Billy Jenkins isn't the sort of boy you should be making friends with," Lars said.

"Father doesn't know who he is, but we do," added Leif. "His mother's….not very proper."

"I know what his mother is, she's a whore," said Hans.

Both twins looked equally shocked and Hans couldn't help giggling at their expressions which made them look exactly like their father.

"You're too young to know words like that," Lars said. "We only know it because some of the boys in our class gossip about Mrs Jenkins."

"Miss Lillian," said Hans. "She ain't married."

"Hans! Don't say 'ain't'. Father will go mad," Leif told him.

Hans shrugged. "He goes mad about everything."

"He'll have good reason to when he finds out your friend is the roughest boy in school," said Lars.

"Well, I don't care, I like him," Hans said defiantly. "He's my friend, whatever you say."

"Please yourself," said Leif. "You'll know about it when Father hears about him. He'll think you're good for nothing, just like Billy Jenkins."

"He probably thinks that anyway since you stole from him," added Lars.

"Billy says blackmailing is as bad as stealing," said Hans.

"What do you know about blackmail?" Lars said in surprise.

"Only that it's bad and you're doing it, so if you tell Nana I stole, I'll tell her you did that."

"Why, you little…!" Leif grabbed Hans angrily by the shoulders and shook him hard. "Do you want a slap?"

"Let go!" exclaimed Hans.

"Be quiet!" Leif replied, shaking Hans more vigorously. Hans did the only thing he could think of, which was to make a fist and jab it upwards where it met Leif's chin, not particularly hard, but enough to make the older boy let go and step back in shock.

"You hit me," he gasped.

Hans bit his lip, thinking he probably shouldn't have done that, but Leif shaking him had made his teeth rattle and the first idea that came to him was to do what Billy had been teaching him all afternoon.

"Sorry, Leif," he said.

Lars grinned suddenly. "Maybe you're not such a baby after all," he said.

"No, you're not. That hurt," said Leif. "Just don't hit us, alright? Save it for people who really upset you."

Hans smiled. "Like Thomas."

"Was it you who hit him? He had a split lip," Lars said in disbelief.

"No, that was Billy. It'll be me next time," boasted Hans, thinking that at the grand old age of almost six he could take care of himself.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Hans and Billy became as thick as thieves from then on, although Hans managed to avoid inviting Billy for supper after the twins warned him a meeting between his new pal and their father would likely bring an end to the boys' friendship.

Instead, Hans took to visiting Billy's home almost every week, discovering that Miss Lillian appeared to have no particular rules other than expecting Billy to be home before she went out to work. She wasn't much of a cook and usually brought food home from the saloon each night to eat the following day. If Hans happened to stay for a meal he was usually given leftover meatloaf, cold pie, bread and cheese or something similar. Slouching on the huge over-stuffed sofa with Billy, their feet on the wobbly table in front of it, eating cold leftovers, Hans couldn't have been more happy and he marvelled at the enormous difference between his own home and his friend's. He almost wished he could leave home and go to live with Billy and Miss Lillian instead.

Billy continued teaching Hans to fight and he put most of his energy into practising. Billy also taught him to play poker and to ride the old mare at the saloon which the owner, Red Burrows, let Lillian borrow when she needed a horse for anything. By the time he reached seven no one in school bothered him, not even Thomas and his gang. The four of them were no longer the group for the other children to avoid – it was Billy and Hans who nobody wanted to upset.

If Hans had put as much effort into his schoolwork as he did learning to be like Billy, he would have become an excellent student like his brothers, but he continued to loathe the lessons and paid little attention, sketching comical pictures to pass along the back of the class to Billy instead of writing or calculating sums. Twice in that first year Miss Rivers wrote a letter home to Jorgen, but she made the mistake of asking Hans to deliver them so of course they never reached his father. It was eventually Jorgen who visited the school after Hans had been there eighteen months, to demand why his youngest son still appeared not to be able to read. He only regretted it had taken him so long to notice, but his law practise had recently begun to command more and more of his attention and he had spent less and less time with the boys.

Horrified by Miss Rivers' report, Jorgen returned home in a temper, vowing to keep more of an eye on Hans in the future. He had never had any need to worry about the schoolwork of Lars and Leif, both of whom excelled at everything and even at the age of twelve, knew exactly what they wanted to do when they left the town school. Both would go to college, Lars to become a lawyer and join his father's practise and Leif to study to become a doctor. Jorgen was proud of both and knew they were going to grow into fine young men. Not so with their brother.

"Hans!" bellowed Jorgen as the front door crashed shut behind him. "Come here!"

He received no reply and headed up the stairs to look for his wayward son. Leif appeared in the doorway of the room he and Lars still shared.

"He's not here, Father," he said.

"Where is he?"

"He went to Billy's house."

"Where does this Billy Jenkins live?" Jorgen demanded.

"On the edge of town, Father," said Lars. "I think it's on the last street past the saloon."

"Right. I'm going over there. What are you two doing?"

"Homework, Father," Lars said. "We have a history test to study for."

"Excellent. Keep at it, boys," Jorgen nodded and returned downstairs.

He left the house again and began to stride off in the direction of the saloon, passing it a short while later and turning into the street Lars and Leif had mentioned. There were only three houses there, all looking as if they would fall down in a light breeze. The first house had its front door standing open and an elderly lady kneeled in the front yard, picking peas from the plants growing there.

"Excuse me, Madam," Jorgen said, pausing. "Could you tell me which is the Jenkins house?"

"The one on the end, Sir," the lady replied, straightening up and staring curiously as the smartly dressed gentleman strode off down the street. She assumed he must be a customer of the Jenkins woman. They didn't usually call around at the house, but there had been the odd occasion when this had happened.

Hans and Billy were in the middle of a game of poker, gambling their allowances when the loud knock on the door almost shook it on its hinges.

"Who's that?" asked Hans.

"Dunno, do I?" Billy shrugged and got up. He pulled the door open and looked up at Jorgen, guessing immediately from the man's appearance that he was Hans' father.

"Can I help ya?" he asked.

"I wish to speak with your mother," Jorgen demanded, grimacing at what he could see of the room behind the partially open door. Out of sight, Hans cringed and bit his lip, knowing his father would be furious that he was spending time in such a place and without Billy's mother present.

"She ain't here, Mister," Billy replied. "She went out to the store."

"You're Billy Jenkins, I take it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Is Hans here?"

"Yeah." Billy pushed the door wider open and Jorgen looked in, his mouth dropping open as he saw Hans sitting cross legged on the floor with some cards in his hand, various coins scattered on the table in front of him.

"What on earth are you doing, boy?" he demanded.

"Playing poker, Father."

"Come here this minute!" Jorgen didn't enter the house, but waited on the step as Hans got up, picked up some coins and shoved them into his pocket, then walked slowly to the door. Jorgen grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him out of the building, almost pulling him off his feet.

"Hey, ya'll hurt him!" Billy exclaimed.

"You keep out of this!" snapped Jorgen. "Come on, Hans. You have some explaining to do." He turned and began to drag the boy along the path, stopping suddenly as he came face to face with Lillian, a basket on her arm containing some fabric she had bought. As usual she looked beautiful, her silky black hair pinned up and tied with lace and her gown of a deep moss green, trimmed with more lace at the neck and cuffs.

"Why, Jorgen, what brings you here?" she said, her red lips stretching into a surprised smile.

Hans looked up at his father, his mouth falling open. His father and Miss Lillian knew each other?

"I've come for my boy," Jorgen grunted, his face reddening. "I'd thank you not to invite him here again."

"Whatever ya say," Lillian said softly, still smiling. "Although the boys are great friends, it'd be a shame to keep them apart."

"I don't want Hans spending time with the likes of you and your son!" snapped Jorgen.

Lillian tilted her head slightly to one side and raised her eyebrows, continuing to smile although she said nothing.

"Come along, Hans!" Jorgen ordered again, beginning to stride away again and pulling Hans along with him.

"You know Miss Lillian, Father?" Hans dared to ask.

"Of course I don't know her!" Jorgen blustered. "I don't associate with those sort of people and neither will you in the future."

"Well, how does she know your name?"

"Obviously you've mentioned it to her!" Jorgen yanked harder on his son's arm and walked faster, Hans finding himself having to run to avoid being dragged off his feet altogether. He thought it best not to ask any more questions about Lillian as it seemed to be angering his father even more, but he was sure he had never said his father's name was Jorgen. He would ask Billy about it next time he saw him. He would probably know; he seemed to know everything.

Arriving back at the house, Jorgen thrust the door open, pulled Hans inside and slammed it after him.

"Get up to your room!" he ordered. "I'll come and speak to you directly."

Hans went up the stairs without a word, ignoring Leif peering out of his room as he passed.

"What have you done now?" Leif called after him.

"Nothing."

"Other than be found at Billy Jenkins' house," said Leif.

Hans swung around. "You told him where I was, didn't you?" he said.

"Of course we told him," Lars said, appearing beside his twin. "It's about time Father knew what you've been getting up to. You're so busy with Billy behaving like a pair of thugs that you can't even read yet."

"You're useless," Leif added. "I don't know anyone of seven who can't read and write."

"Father must be so ashamed of you," Lars finished. "We are too, we don't like admitting you're related to us."

"Shut up!" Hans cried.

"_Hans_!" Jorgen barked, starting up the stairs. "I thought I told you to go to your room!"

"They started it," said Hans. "I was going to my room."

"Don't answer me back, boy! You're in enough trouble as it is. I had a meeting with Miss Rivers this afternoon. She tells me you do nothing but cause trouble in her class and that you haven't learned even the most basic of skills in over a year!" Jorgen ushered Hans into his room and closed the door. "She also tells me she has written two letters to me recently, which you were supposed to have delivered."

"Sorry, Father," Hans said with a sigh.

"In addition, I find you playing poker with your rough little friend in that trollop's house!" Jorgen continued.

Hans wondered if 'trollop' was a more polite way of saying 'whore', but kept his mouth shut, knowing he was in for a thrashing without him adding to his crimes by uttering that word.

"Have you anything to say for yourself?" Jorgen demanded.

"No, Father."

"Well, you're going to be punished. I've been much too soft on you recently. Unfortunately my work has got in the way somewhat and I haven't paid as much attention to the three of you as I ought to have done. Consequently you seem to have got away with wasting your time rather than attending to your studies. You'll end up just like your good for nothing friend, with no prospect of a decent occupation or home!" Jorgen began to unfasten his belt. "Drop your trousers."

Hans eyed the belt in alarm. Up to now he had only suffered the back of his father's hand, but he knew without having experienced it that the belt would be a hundred times more painful.

"Please, Father," he said. "I'll behave, I promise."

"It's too late." Jorgen yanked the belt free of its loops. "For once, do as you're told!"

Hans slowly unfastened his pants and let them fall down. Underneath he was wearing long underwear and they were left on. He bent over slightly and placed his hands on his bed, waiting for the belt to make contact and holding his breath. He could hear the leather whistle as it cut through the air and then it slapped across his rear, making him gasp and dig his fingers into the mattress beneath his hands. The belt hit Hans from the buttocks to part way down the backs of his thighs five times in all and as tears of pain squeezed out of his closed eyes, he realised ironically that he could count. He now climbed slowly onto the bed and lay face down, snuffling into the pillow.

Jorgen backed away and returned the belt to his trousers, grim and silent as he wondered if perhaps he hadn't gone a little too far, but how else could he keep the boy in line? The way he was going, he was going to end up a complete failure.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

The thrashing Hans received from his father actually had some effect, at least for a short period. He spent a few days paying attention to Miss Rivers at school, but quickly discovered he was much too far behind in everything except drawing to have a hope of catching up without some extra help. Not being able to read and write affected everything else and he quickly lost interest once again and spent most of his time passing sketches back and forth with Billy, who now sat at the next desk after the place had become vacant.

Billy, who could read and write, paid attention to the lessons when it suited him, which wasn't all that often, but he still managed to survive with average grades without appearing to make the effort the rest of the class put into their studies. Hans envied him for just about everything and wished constantly that he had Billy for a brother instead of Lars and Leif.

It turned out that Billy hadn't been aware that Jorgen knew his mother, but he boldly asked Lillian about it and reported back to Hans at school the following day that Jorgen occasionally visited the saloon. That was all Billy said, but Hans suspected there was more to it, only he didn't yet understand what. It was another three years before he came to realise that Jorgen was one of Lillian's customers, albeit rarely.

Despite Jorgen's orders that Hans keep away from Billy and his mother, the two boys remained fast friends and Hans managed to visit him on the weekends at least once or twice a month when his father was too busy to notice whether he was home or not.

In addition Jorgen did his best to keep an eye on Hans' schoolwork and after a further six months was furious to find that no progress had been made since his meeting with Miss Rivers. He decided to visit the teacher once again and discuss removing Hans from the school and employing a tutor to teach him at home. However, Jorgen didn't have the chance to go to the school before Lars was sent home to fetch him to deal with the now eight-year-old Hans.

Billy was home sick that week and with Hans alone, Thomas and his friends had decided it was an ideal opportunity to tackle the younger boy. They waited until Miss Rivers and the other teacher were out of sight during the lunch break and then cornered Hans where he sat in the yard eating his lunch. However, Hans was no longer intimidated, even alone and faced with all four of them and a fight immediately ensued. Two of the smaller boys in the group backed off quickly, leaving Thomas and the fourth boy, Bobby, tussling with Hans. Hans managed to wind Thomas and while he bent double, gasping, threw himself at Bobby and beat him with fists and feet, causing a bleeding nose, black eye and split lip by the time Lars and Leif, under the instruction of Miss Rivers, dragged him off. Lars was immediately sent home to fetch Jorgen and Bobby was taken home by one of the older boys from the other class.

Hans stood outside Miss Rivers' small office while she and his father talked about him and when they eventually emerged, both looking annoyed, Hans was dragged out of the school by the arm with no explanation until they reached the house.

"You've been expelled," Jorgen said grimly, the moment the door closed.

"Expelled? What's that?" Hans asked innocently.

"It means you're no longer welcome at school. They're giving up on you, with your failure to learn and now this fighting. What's got into you? I take it this is Billy Jenkins' influence."

"He ain't even at school, he's sick," blurted out Hans.

"He _isn't_ at school," Jorgen corrected. "I didn't bring you up to speak like that."

"So does that mean I don't have to go to school any more?" Hans asked, thinking that this was the best thing that could have happened to him.

"You won't be going to school, you'll be having a private tutor. I won't have you growing up ignorant. Eight years old and you can't even read; I'm ashamed of you, Hans!" Jorgen exclaimed.

"Sorry, Father," Hans said, feeling anything but. No more school! Even Billy had to stay for a few more months yet before he would be allowed to leave and find work on a farm or delivering for a local store. He bit his lip to hide a grin, but didn't completely succeed.

"You find this amusing?" Jorgen demanded. "You think failing at even the most basic skills is something to be proud of?"

"No, Father," replied Hans, lowering his head to disguise his expression. He was good at fighting and playing poker and riding a horse; what did he need to write and do sums for?

"Get to your room," Jorgen said in exasperation. "I don't want to see you until the morning."

Hans went up to his room without a word, grinning the minute his back was turned. No more school and not even a thrashing. Things were looking up.

The following Monday the tutor arrived, a young and pretty lady named Miss Featherstone. She was not quite what Jorgen had been expecting when he answered her advertisement, hoping to see a severe middle-aged lady with plenty of experience dealing with stubborn children. Jorgen decided to give her a month's trial before making any decision and much to his surprise, Hans seemed to like her. At least he made some effort to begin learning and by the end of the first month he knew the alphabet and could write his name, remembered various historical facts and was able to do basic mathematics in his head.

Jorgen relaxed and Miss Featherstone was set to continue teaching Hans permanently until much to everyone's disappointment, her mother became seriously ill just weeks later and she was forced to resign to care for the elderly woman. Jorgen replaced her with the previously imagined middle-aged tutor, a widow named Mrs Wakeman, whom Hans instantly hated and did everything in his power to annoy. His refusal to work and prank-playing resulted in the woman punishing him by striking his knuckles with a ruler on numerous occasions and his father following it up with the belt when he received a suitably poor report from Mrs Wakeman.

By the time Hans turned nine, Mrs Wakeman had handed in her notice and Jorgen had given up. During that time it hadn't occurred to anyone to discuss the situation with Ilse, who wrote regularly and visited the family at Christmas. Jorgen hated to admit his youngest son was a badly-behaved ignorant thug and couldn't bear to ask his mother for help, while Lars and Leif preferred to boast about their own achievements rather than waste their time talking about Hans. They were now almost fifteen and looking forward to going to college in another year.

Jorgen decided the only thing to do with Hans was to put him to work and thus arranged for him to take a job on a farm two miles away. The boy was required to walk there each morning and return on foot, exhausted in the evenings, carrying out whatever tasks the farmer, Jeremy Hawkins asked of him in the interim. He set off reluctantly on the first day at five-thirty, wondering how he could get out of working. He would much rather go to Billy's house for the day. The other boy had recently left school himself and with Hans not allowed out, it was almost a month since they had seen each other.

By the time Hans had finished considering whether or not to shirk the job, he was within sight of the farm and decided he may as well continue and see what it was like, rather than return home to a certain thrashing later. He walked up the track towards the farmhouse, assuming he should report there.

"Hey, Hans!"

He spun around in surprise at Billy's voice.

"What are you doing here?"

"I oughta be askin' you that," grinned Billy. "I've been here a month, you'd've known that if ya'd been 'round."

"Sorry, Father wouldn't let me out," Hans grimaced. "The last tutor quit, so I'm to work instead."

"Bet your pa don't know I'm here," Billy said.

"No. What do I have to do? Have I to see Mr Hawkins?"

"No, he said there was a new kid startin', I've to show ya the ropes. We gotta clean the barn first. Come on." Billy set off towards the large wooden building and Hans followed, now smiling. Working on the farm wasn't going to be so bad after all with Billy for company.

The Hawkins farm primarily ran beef cattle, but also kept half a dozen horses, two dairy cows and some chickens, in addition to the four acres of crops and vegetable garden. Billy and Hans, subsequent to clearing out the barn, were required to work in the fields, look after the horses and occasionally herd the cattle which involved horseback riding. Hans found himself progressively more and more delighted that Jorgen had given up trying to have him schooled and actually managed to impress Mr Hawkins with his hard work. The boys were required to work Monday through Saturday with Sundays off and Jorgen was surprised to receive a favourable report from the farmer after the first week, advising that the new employee was pulling his weight.

The days on the farm were long and tiring with the addition of the two mile walk morning and evening, but Hans relished being out of the house and other than supper each day and attending church on Sundays, he saw little of Jorgen and his brothers. There was only one thing which marred his new found pleasure in life. Lars and Leif delighted in telling him that Nana was now writing to them personally, rather than just to Jorgen and including with each letter a note for Hans. The younger boy found them reading one such letter one Saturday evening when he returned from the farm.

"Who's that from?" he asked them.

"Nana," Lars grinned.

"What does she say?" Hans asked eagerly.

"You can read it yourself later," Leif told him.

Hans scowled. "You know I can't."

"Well, that's your hard luck then, isn't it?" said Lars, holding out a piece of paper towards Hans. "Nana wrote this page just to you."

"If you hadn't been such a worthless little idiot in school you'd be able to see what she says and write back to her," added Leif.

Hans didn't need any more encouragement to fly at both of them, although the two teenagers were more than a match for him and merely pinned him to the floor and laughed at him.

"Let go of me!" Hans growled. "I hate you, ya bastards!"

"You better not use language like that in front of Father, he'll go back to thrashing you," Leif said, letting go of Hans.

"Try that again, we'll thrash you ourselves," finished Lars. "Get out of here, we want to finish reading our letter!"

"Oh, wait…. this is yours." Leif picked up the single sheet of paper and thrust it towards Hans. "Maybe you'll get someone to read it to you one day, if you dare admit to anyone you can't read."

"I hate you," muttered Hans, snatching the note and backing out of the room.

"Yes, you said," responded Lars.

Hans went to his room, clutching the piece of lavender scented paper in one hand and shoved his door closed behind him. The page was covered with curly writing which may as well have been in a foreign language. The only part he was able to make out was the second word, _Hans._ At least he could read his own name, for all the good it did.

Hans spent most of Sunday in his room after church, thinking about the letter which he had hidden in a small wooden box beneath his bed, lest Lars and Leif should think about taking it away from him. All he could think about was the things they had said to him and he realised asking someone to read the letter to him was like admitting to being a failure. However, there was one person who had never treated him as if he was and he thought that perhaps she could help him.

"Billy, can I come over to your place for supper?" Hans asked. It was Monday and the pair were just preparing to leave the farm.

"Sure, but won't yer pa come after ya?" grinned Billy.

"I don't think he'll even notice and if he does, it's too bad," Hans shrugged.

"Come on, then." Billy headed towards the lane leading back to town and Hans followed quickly, with growing excitement. "Ma'll be glad to see ya," Billy said as they walked. "She was sayin' just the other day we ain't see ya in a while."

"I wanna ask for her help on something," Hans said.

"Oh, yeah? Well, she'll help anybody if she can," replied Billy, not even asking what Hans wanted with his mother.

Twenty minutes later they reached the house and Billy threw the door open as usual, kicking his muddy boots off on the step before charging in. Hans followed.

"Ma! Hans is here for supper!" Billy called.

Lillian came out of the bedroom immediately, beaming.

"Hello, Hans, we've been missin' seein' ya."

"Me too," Hans said.

"Meatloaf for supper tonight," added Lillian.

"Great. I'll go wash up," said Billy, heading back outside again to the pump.

"Miss Lillian, can ya help me with something, please?" Hans asked at once.

"Sure, 'course I can." Lillian sat down on the sofa, smoothing her red silk dress down over her knees. "Come sit by me."

Hans sat. "I got this letter," he began. "From my Nana."

"What does it say?"

"I don't know." Hans licked his lips, suddenly feeling rather stupid at having to confess. "I can't read," he added in a whisper.

"Lotta people can't read," Lillian said with a smile. "Ain't nothin' to be ashamed of. Didn't ya learn in school, though?"

"Didn't Billy tell ya? I got expelled," said Hans.

"Oh! No, he didn't. Billy ain't one to tell on folks."

"It was when Billy was away sick last year. I was fightin'. Anyhow, Father got a tutor, but she left. I guess it was my fault. I was bad." Hans hung his head. "I work at the farm now, with Billy. Can you read, Miss Lillian?"

"Yes."

"So will ya read it to me? Please?" asked Hans hopefully, looking up at her again.

"Alright." Lillian took the folded sheet of scented paper that he passed to her. "I'll make you a deal. I'll read ya this letter if you'll let me teach ya. That way ya can read the next one yerself and write a letter back to yer Nana."

"Really? You'll do that for me?"

"Sure. We'll start tonight right after supper. You come by a coupla times a week after work and we'll have ya readin' and writin' in no time." Lillian unfolded the letter and laid it on her lap. "_Dear Hans," _she began.

Hans listened with bated breath, realising that reading and writing was good for something after all and vowing he was going to learn to do it if it killed him.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

For the following few months, Hans went home with Billy for supper at least twice a week, sometimes more than that. With his newfound determination to read and write, Hans learned rapidly and spent hours every night at home in his room practising, a chest barricading his door closed to prevent Lars and Leif barging in and catching him. He knew they would merely laugh at him and decided to keep his learning a secret. When he was finally able to write to Nana, he asked for her to reply to him at Billy's house, explaining in a long-winded manner that Lars and Leif were mean and wouldn't give him her letters until they'd had them for weeks. He knew his father hadn't informed Nana he had been expelled from school and was working either, so he didn't mention this, but talked about things he had read and adventures he had with Billy and how he had learned to ride a horse.

Ilse's first reply arrived rapidly after the first letter and she expressed delight that Hans wanted to correspond with her privately. She did mention to Jorgen, however, the following Christmas, that she was impressed by Hans' neat writing and use of language. Jorgen, puzzled, said nothing, but spoke to the boy after Ilse returned home.

"Who is helping you write to your grandmother?"

Hans shrugged. "A friend. Don't worry, she won't find out what a failure I am."

Later he wondered why he hadn't admitted to his father that he had learned to write the letters himself. Perhaps for once the man would have been proud of him, but it occurred to him that he would have had to admit it was Miss Lillian who had taught him and then it would all come out that Billy was working at the farm too and he had been going to his home regularly after being told not to. That would no doubt result in another thrashing and Hans would probably not be allowed to work at the farm any more, both of which would overshadow any minute amount of pride his father may have in his sudden ability to read and write. He decided it was best kept quiet and thus continued his letter-writing with Nana in secret and in addition, delved into Lillian's small collection of books in order to expand his vocabulary.

With Hans enjoying working on the farm and spending so much time with his best friend and Miss Lillian, consequently he was happier and misbehaved less at home. Much as Jorgen hated the fact that his youngest son was unschooled, he was forced to admit that sending him to work had been for the best. The child was much more manageable and Jorgen was able to largely let him do what he wanted and concentrate his time on the twins who were excelling themselves in their studies and counting off the weeks until they could begin college.

When Lars and Leif turned sixteen, Jorgen threw a party for them, inviting a number of friends for dinner and dancing to celebrate both the boys' birthday and their imminent move to college. Much to Hans' disgust, he was given a new short haircut and a fine suit to wear. As if that wasn't enough, Jorgen invited the Reverend's wife to spend one Sunday afternoon teaching the eleven-year-old Hans to dance.

"You have to be kiddin'," Hans muttered under his breath. "Dancin's for sissies."

"What was that?" Jorgen asked, fortunately not having heard what the boy said.

"Nothin', Father."

"For goodness' sake, boy, will you stop clipping your words and speak properly?" Jorgen snapped, irritated. "How many times must I tell you? I frequently wonder if sending you to work on a farm wasn't a mistake; you've begun to speak like a farmer."

"Sorry, Father," Hans said.

"And I don't want to hear a single word of complaint about dancing either. The Livingstones and the Willingtons both have young daughters who will want to dance; young ladies much too small for your brothers."

"Girls?" Hans raised one eyebrow in the cocky way he had adopted from Lillian.

"Yes, Hans, the fairer sex. So you'll do as you're told and for once get through an evening without showing yourself up."

"Of course, Father." Hans grinned to himself. At the first mention of dancing lessons he hadn't realised that the point was for him to be able to dance with girls. After Billy's rather graphic description of the birds and the bees a year ago, based on what they saw on the farm every day and enhanced by other tips picked up from Lillian, Hans couldn't wait to have some girls to spend time with.

Much to Jorgen and the twins' surprise, Hans quickly proved to be light on his feet and mastered the waltz and various other dances in the space of one afternoon with the Reverend's wife.

"He's a perfect little gentleman," she reported to Jorgen later, prompting Lars and Leif to clamp hands over their mouths to smother what otherwise would have been loud and disbelieving laughter. They proceeded to tease and taunt Hans throughout the next week, but for once he refused to be drawn into an argument and simply ignored them. He was too excited about being able to spend Saturday evening with _girls_.

Jorgen wrote a letter to Mr Hawkins which Hans took with him to work on Saturday, asking for him to leave at three o'clock instead of six in order for him to be ready for the party. Hans hurried home afterwards and dived straight into the bathtub which the housekeeper had prepared for him. Lars and Leif were already scrubbed and dressed in their finest suits, eagerly awaiting the arrival of their party guests.

Hans scrubbed himself from head to foot and dressed in the hated suit. It was made of expensive dark grey fabric and consisted of trousers, vest and a long coat completed by a crisp white shirt, blue necktie and new shiny shoes. He loathed dressing up, but eventually when he looked at himself in the mirror, he thought he appeared very smart and handsome and grown up. He grinned at his reflection. The suit wasn't so bad after all. The girls were sure to like it. His only regret was that he had been forced to have a haircut. His hair had been shaggy and hanging over his collar, almost like Billy's. Now it was neatly clipped and extremely short.

The guests all arrived around five o'clock, Mr and Mrs Livingstone with their two daughters, fifteen-year-old Lucy and twelve-year-old Harriet first. Lars and Leif already knew Lucy from school and immediately flocked around her, admiring her fine gown. Hans was expected to talk to Harriet and later dance with her. He introduced himself and eyed her up and down. She was a couple of inches shorter than him despite being a year older. She had brown eyes and long dark hair like Miss Lillian, only she wore it in ringlets fastened with a pink bow that matched her dress. Below its hem her dainty feet were visible, her shoes a darker shade of pink and fastened with shiny buckles.

"I'm happy to make your acquaintance," she said primly, offering a white-gloved hand to Hans to shake.

"Pleased to meet ya," Hans replied and then silently cursed himself. He wasn't on the farm now and if he didn't make at least some effort, he wasn't likely to impress Miss Harriet Livingstone or the other girl, Rosemary Willington, who was just arriving.

Rosemary was eleven and also had an elder sister, Clara, whom Lars and Leif knew from school. Hans excused himself politely and went to meet the young lady. She was the complete opposite to Harriet in looks, being blonde and blue-eyed and dressed in a cream lace gown.

"I'm delighted to meet you, Rosemary," Hans said, shaking her hand gently.

"Thank you," she said shyly.

Another couple arrived with their daughter and two sons, all of whom Lars and Leif were friends with and then everyone was shown into the dining room for a fine dinner of several courses. Jorgen kept a close eye on Hans in the beginning, but much to the surprise of both his father and his brothers, he managed to remain polite and pleasant throughout the meal, following which he talked to and dance with each of the two young girls, quickly finding Harriet to be his favourite. She was chatty and outgoing, whereas Rosemary was shy and quiet. After only two dances with Hans she returned to her parents and remained with them for some time until Jorgen, mingling and noticing the blonde girl was with her mother, realised that Hans and Harriet were nowhere to be seen. Jorgen excused himself quickly and summoned Lars to him.

"Where's Hans?" he asked in a low voice.

"I don't know, Father, I've been busy talking to Lucy about college."

"Ask Leif, please."

Lars went to interrupt his twin's dance with Clara. He returned a moment later to report that Leif hadn't seen Hans for some time either.

"Is something wrong, Jorgen?" Mrs Livingstone asked at that moment, touching his arm.

"No, not at all," Jorgen blustered.

"I cannot see Harriet anywhere," the lady added. "She was talking to your youngest, the last time I saw her, which must have been a half hour ago."

"I'll look for them," Jorgen said, both annoyed and embarrassed and left the room quickly. Mrs Livingstone immediately followed and the pair scoured the downstairs rooms.

"I do apologise for this," Jorgen said. "Please, return to the party. They won't be far away."

He turned away from the lady and quickly climbed the stairs, striding along the landing to Hans' room. He paused for a moment outside the door and listened, immediately hearing Harriet's voice.

"Don't, Hans, it's not right."

Jorgen thrust the door open and froze, horrified to find his eleven-year-old son with his arms around Harriet, attempting to kiss her while she strained to get away, her face red and anxious. Then much to Jorgen's dismay, he heard Mrs Livingstone walking along the landing to join him.

"Hans! What do you think you're doing?" Jorgen demanded.

"We was only kissin'," Hans said, letting go of Harriet and insolently raising one eyebrow. Harriet leapt up and ran to her mother.

"I'm sorry, Mother, I didn't know," she whimpered.

"It's alright, Harriet." Mrs Livingstone ushered the girl out of the room. "Some people have no idea of the correct way to behave. We'll be going now, Mr Lausenstrom. Please don't bother to see us out."

The pair returned downstairs, leaving Jorgen both furious and mortified. He closed the door and locked it from the outside, leaving Hans to await later punishment, then hurried down to the drawing room to attempt to rescue the party. However, Mrs Livingstone had loudly described Hans' antics to her elder daughter and husband and the Willingtons had decided to leave also, rather than allow Rosemary to have any further contact with Hans. Shortly after the other family took their leave too.

"Hans ruined everything," Lars growled. "Lucy will probably never speak to me again."

"I didn't think he could get worse," added Leif. "He doesn't care about anyone other than himself."

"Worthless little ba…!"

"Lars!" exclaimed Jorgen. "That'll do. I know exactly what he is. I'm sorry your party has been spoiled; I should have known better than to expect him to behave decently for an entire evening."

"What are you going to do to him, Father?" asked Leif.

"I have yet to think of a suitable punishment," Jorgen said. "I'll go and speak to him now. You two stay here, please. You may both have a small glass of port if you wish."

"Thanks, Father," both said together.

Jorgen left them to it and headed upstairs to give Hans the thrashing of his life, this time applying the belt to him with such vigour that eventually he drew blood. Hans bit hard into the pillow and refused to cry, silently cursing his father and his stuck up brothers with every lash.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

A few weeks later, Lars and Leif left for college in Chicago. The small establishment in Denver didn't offer the courses they wanted to take and Jorgen had allowed them to choose from Boston, Chicago and San Francisco, all of which had excellent facilities and professors. Lars had always intended to be a lawyer like his father and Leif wished to be a doctor, but no single college offered the best tuition for both careers. The twins considered going to different cities to study for about five minutes and decided compromising their chosen profession was preferable to being separated. Chicago had the best courses in law and also science, so Leif decided to study science instead of medicine, reasoning that he could become a doctor later with some further study if he still wanted to, since the two were fairly closely connected.

Jorgen travelled to Chicago on the train with the two teenagers, leaving Hans behind in the care of Nana who visited for a few days. It was the best few days of Hans' life. During the day he worked on the farm with Billy and in the evening he was spoiled rotten by both Nana and the housekeeper. Hans was very disappointed when his father returned and Nana went home, particularly when he discovered that without Lars and Leif to dote on, Jorgen breathed down his neck much of the time, questioning him about everything. Consequently he found he could get away with less and had to reduce the time he spent with Billy after work.

Lars and Leif returned home for the Christmas holidays, both with glowing reports and 'A' grades for every test they had been given. Jorgen heaped praise on both and virtually ignored Hans for most of the two-week break, except for chastising his rough speaking and scruffy appearance more than once.

Life continued in much the same way as Hans grew into his teens, unable to do a thing right in his father's eyes and feeling that the only people who cared an iota for him were Nana, Miss Lillian and Billy, although shortly after his fourteenth birthday a newcomer to the Hawkins farm threatened the latter.

Mr and Mrs Hawkins had no children of their own, but their fifteen-year-old niece came into their care after her grandmother passed on. Miranda's parents had died when she was too young to remember them and her maternal grandmother had raised her. When the old lady died, the only relatives she had left were her Uncle Jeremy and Aunt Jessica.

Billy and Hans watched from the paddock with interest as Mr Hawkins lifted Miranda down from his wagon and sent her into the farmhouse with his wife. The girl was slender, but already nicely shaped, her blonde hair tied into a thick braid that reached to her waist. Her pretty face was pale and sad and she didn't even notice the boys as she walked slowly to the house. Mr Hawkins followed with her luggage and then came back outside.

"Hans, unharness the horse, please," he instructed.

"Yes, Sir." Hans went to the horse.

"The young girl is my niece, Miranda," Hawkins told the pair. "She's to live here now. You two make sure yer polite to her if ya see her around, but keep yer distance, ya hear me?"

"Yes, Sir," Billy and Hans both replied. Hawkins nodded and left them to their work.

The boys didn't really expect to see much of Miranda, but once the girl recovered from her grief over the loss of her grandmother, she proved to be outgoing and chatty, often wandering into the yard or the paddock to look for company. She apparently took an immediate liking to the sixteen-year-old Billy and hung around him as often as possible, frequently annoying her uncle and aunt. Hawkins spoke to the boys about her once more and both denied encouraging her, but Miranda refused to stay away from them and somehow convinced her surrogate parents to let her spend time with them, particularly Billy.

After that Hans came upon the pair of them cuddling and kissing in the barn or out in the fields on several occasions and for the first time felt jealousy. Miranda was a beautiful and feisty girl and he'd have given anything to be in Billy's place. The pair seemed very keen on each other and Billy talked about her constantly to Hans when the boys were together. Hans clearly had no chance with Miranda himself and accepted that she was Billy's, so he was hugely surprised when she sought his company one Saturday when Hawkins and Billy had gone to the cattle market.

"Hey, Hans," Miranda said, joining him in the barn where he was feeding an orphaned calf.

"Hey." He looked up and grinned at her before turning back to his work. She looked beautiful that morning, with her hair falling loose to her waist and the blue dress she had on emphasising the colour of her eyes.

"Ya don't speak to me much, don't ya like me?" Miranda asked boldly.

"'Course I like ya," Hans said at once, abandoning the calf and getting to his feet. "But yer courtin' Billy, ain't ya?"

"I suppose," Miranda said with a sigh. "Although we never go nowhere 'cause the only times he's here, he's workin'. I'm gettin' kinda bored."

"Well, then, you oughta tell him," Hans said.

"I can't do that. Besides, sometimes he's fun." She took a step closer to Hans. "I like you too. Maybe we could have some fun an' all."

"I ain't gettin' between you and Billy." Hans took a step away from her reluctantly.

"Ya wouldn't be, if he didn't know."

"I guess." Hans stared at her thoughtfully. There was no denying she was a lovely girl and it was the first time anyone had shown an interest in him. While he was thinking about it, Miranda moved closer to him again and slid her hands into his. Any principles he might have had in relation to Billy went straight out of his head and he bent to kiss her.

Other than Harriet, who had turned her face away and struggled, Hans hadn't kissed anyone before and was at once hugely excited when Miranda's lips clung to his. She pulled her hands free and slid her arms up around his neck, bringing her body close to his and in return, he held her tight, his eyes closed, tasting her, sliding his tongue into her mouth when she encouraged him. His heart thumped and his pants began to feel rather too tight as they continued to kiss heatedly and thoughts of lying down in the hay at the back of the barn and taking off Miranda's dress began to fill his head. He could barely breathe and eventually drew his mouth away from hers, gasping, his senses spinning.

In the distance the sound of the wagon returning could be heard and Miranda pulled out of his arms quickly, lowering her eyes and smiling coyly at him.

"I better get to the house, sounds like Uncle's comin' back," she said, then turned on her heel and flounced out of the barn.

"Damnit," muttered Hans under his breath and kicked at the wall of the barn. He was extremely hot under the collar and irritated by the interruption, but worse, he was filled with guilt. Billy was his best friend; his only friend and he'd betrayed him. He hardly knew what to say to Billy when he joined Hans in finishing off the chores before it was time to leave the farm. Luckily Billy had plenty to say about the cattle auction and Hans found he didn't have to say much other than nod and grunt every so often.

Hans was relieved that the next day was Sunday so he didn't have to see either Billy or Miranda, but he knew he would have to face them sooner or later. He spent the whole day cursing himself and wishing he'd walked away from Miranda. There were plenty of girls in town; he certainly didn't need Billy's.

On Monday there was no sign of Miranda in the morning and both boys were hard at work until twelve o'clock when they took their lunch break. Miranda immediately came out of the house and went over to Billy where he was washing up at the pump. Hans watched from a distance as they talked, unable to hear what was being said, but guessing from Billy's body language that he was less than happy. He waited anxiously until Billy strode over to him a few minutes later, a scowl on his face and his fists clenched.

"Y'alright?" Hans asked, his mouth dry. He just knew Miranda had said something. He wouldn't be surprised if Billy punched him.

"Not really, she don't wanna spend time with me no more," Billy muttered.

"Oh…"

"Wanna know why?" He glowered at Hans and waited for a reply.

"Why?"

"'Cause she wants you instead."

"_What?_" Hans felt the colour draining out of his face. What had she to go and say that for?

"Yeah, seems like you kiss better."

Hans opened his mouth to reply and couldn't think of a single thing to say. Whatever he said, he couldn't take it back. If Billy hit him, it would serve him right.

"Ain't ya gonna say nothin'?" growled Billy.

"I'm sorry," Hans said at once. "It was her. I mean, she came to me."

"Yeah, and I bet ya told her ya weren't interested."

"I…" Hans took a deep breath. "I ain't gonna lie about it. She said she didn't see why she couldn't have fun with both of us. I told her I wasn't gonna get in between you and her. Then suddenly we was kissin'. Soon as we stopped I felt like hell."

Billy ground his teeth together and clenched his fists harder.

"Ya gonna hit me?" Hans asked miserably. "Ya might as well."

Billy eyed him sceptically for a moment. "What ya gonna do about Miranda?" he asked.

"Nothin'!" Hans exclaimed. "She's nice an' all, but it ain't worth it. Seems like she gets bored pretty quick. Ain't worth losin' a friend for, if ya still are my friend."

"I gotta think about it," Billy said, relaxing his fists.

"Sure." Hans nodded and watched as the older boy walked away towards the paddock. He stayed where he was, no longer having an appetite for lunch and simply waiting until it was time to get back to work.

On Tuesday, Miranda caught Hans on his own while he was brushing down one of the horses. He had the gelding tied to the paddock fence and was combing its dull coat to a gleam.

"Hey, Hans," Miranda said, appearing suddenly beside him.

"Hey." He carried on with what he was doing and didn't look at her.

"Ya know, I'm free now, I told Billy," she said.

"Right." He straightened up and moved around the other side of the horse. Miranda followed and before he could begin work again, stepped between him and the animal.

"Ain't ya pleased?" she asked, leaning closer.

"No, I ain't." Hans stepped back. "Billy's my friend. Like I said, I ain't gettin' between ya."

"Ain't no me and Billy to get in between," Miranda said, pursing her lips up into a pout.

"Well, that was your choice," said Hans.

"Ya weren't complainin' when we was kissin'," she pointed out.

"Well, ya surprised me. Look, I got work to do, ya best leave me alone."

"Are ya tellin' me I got rid of Billy for nothin'?" Miranda cried, stepping towards him again.

"Not for nothin', no. I think ya probably did him a favour." Hans grinned at her furious face and turned back to the horse. Miranda stormed back to the house and moments later the door slammed behind her.

"Hey."

Hans looked up minutes later at Billy's voice.

"I guess yer right," Billy added.

"Whaddya mean?"

"That she did me a favour. I heard ya talkin'. I don't wanna be with a girl like that, the minute I'm outta sight she'll be after some other fella, whether it's you or whoever. I might as well go to the saloon and pay for it."

Hans snorted. "Sorry," he said.

Billy grinned now. "Think I'll do that when I get my pay."

"Do what?"

"Go to the saloon."

Hans' eyes widened. "Ya done that before?"

"Yeah, once."

"What about yer ma?"

"She figures I'm old enough."

Hans stared at him in admiration and wished he was older than fourteen. He couldn't wait for the next couple of years to pass so that he could get away with a visit to the saloon too.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

The episode with Miranda was quickly forgotten by the two boys. She barely spoke to either of them for weeks afterwards and spent most of her time in the house, only venturing outside to go into the town with her aunt. Billy and Hans wondered whether she would say anything to her uncle and aunt about either of them, but apparently she had kept her mouth shut and only indicated she had had enough of Billy.

It was just over a year later when everything changed once again for both Hans and Billy. They arrived for work one morning as usual and found the farm in uproar, Mrs Hawkins and Miranda being comforted by friends from town, one of whom was the Reverend from the church the Lausenstroms went to.

"What the hell's goin' on?" Billy asked as they hurried into the yard. They were stopped before they reached the house by one of the Hawkins' neighbours.

"There'll be no work today for you two," he said.

"What happened?" asked Hans.

"Your boss got killed last night."

"_What?"_ exclaimed Hans and Billy together.

"Caught a coupla fellas stealin' his cattle," the neighbour told them. "One of 'em shot him."

"Oh, hell," groaned Billy.

"Ya better go home. Someone'll send word. Lillian's kid, ain't ya?"

"Yeah," Billy confirmed.

The neighbour turned away and went to speak to the Reverend. Billy and Hans left the farm and walked back to Billy's house. They heard nothing more from the farm that day and were unsure whether or not to show up for work the next morning. They agreed to meet up outside and call on the Hawkins' neighbour, but Mrs Hawkins was out in the yard and spotted them. She was wearing a black dress and shawl, her face pale and drawn. She walked slowly to the gate to meet them.

"'Mornin', Mrs Hawkins," both said to her.

"'Mornin', boys."

"We're real sorry about Mr Hawkins," Billy went on.

She nodded. "Thank you, Billy. I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. I'm sellin' the farm. I guess I could get a manager, but I don't want the responsibility. I'm gonna take Miranda and move into town. Both of ya can stay on and take care of the animals until then. Hopefully the new owners will still need ya, but I can't promise."

"We understand," Hans said, his heart sinking.

"Ya better get to work," Mrs Hawkins added. "The horses'll be wantin' feedin'."

"Sure, Mrs Hawkins, we'll get right to it." Billy opened the gate and the pair headed for the barn to carry on as normal.

The farm sold fast. As soon as word got around, two potential buyers came looking and each put in an offer. One was higher than the other and Mrs Hawkins accepted it. Within a month of her husband's death, the sale had gone through and she and Miranda moved to town.

Terence Carlisle, the new owner, was a widower with two sons, both of whom intended to help their father run the farm which meant he had no need for two additional workers. However, he was a decent man and advised he would keep one of them on and give the other severance pay. Not knowing the pair, he couldn't pick between them and chatted to first Billy and then Hans. In the end he picked Billy, only because he learned that Billy lived in the poor part of town while Hans' father was rich and he was likely to struggle less without the job.

"Don't matter," Hans said to Billy later. "I'll find somethin' else to do." Mr Carlisle had given him two months' pay and with what he already had saved, he had plenty to keep him going while he looked around.

Hans didn't bother to tell his father what had happened, but simply left home at the same time every morning and went looking for something to occupy him. There were a few jobs going, but they either required a decent education or didn't appeal. Unconcerned, he lived off his severance pay until one Saturday morning he was still lounging at the breakfast table at eight o'clock when his father appeared. He was bored with pretending to go to work and was considering another idea which he knew his father wouldn't approve of.

"Hans, why aren't you at work?" Jorgen asked.

"Don't have a job," Hans replied.

"You've been fired! What have you done?" his father demanded.

"Yeah, you would think that. You expect me to fail at everything," grumbled Hans.

"Usually you do. What happened?"

"Mr Hawkins got killed, didn't ya hear about it?"

"No, I've been busy. When was this?"

"'Bout two months ago," Hans shrugged. "Rustlers shot him."

"Two months ago? Why didn't you say anything?"

"Didn't think it was that important."

"So what have you been doing since?" demanded Jorgen.

"This and that."

"Well, you had better make more of an effort to find alternative occupation. You needn't think I'm going to support you while you laze around like the feckless lout you are!" Jorgen snapped.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Hans said, twitching one eyebrow upwards. He shoved his chair back and got to his feet. "I got things to do."

"Think about smartening yourself up while you're at it," grunted Jorgen. "And get a haircut."

Hans left the room without a reply, glancing at himself in the hallway mirror as he grabbed his coat. He could certainly do with some new clothes, but as for a haircut – not a chance. Hans grinned at his reflection. He had managed to avoid the barber since he had been virtually scalped for his brothers' party four years ago and his hair now brushed his shoulders. It was staying right where it was.

By nine-thirty Hans was sipping coffee at the cafe on the edge of town, chatting to another teenage boy he vaguely remembered from school. Richard was one of the smaller boys from Thomas' gang and at first he had been wary when he saw Hans approaching the table where he was sitting eating a late breakfast.

"Hey. Richard, ain't it?" Hans said.

"Yeah."

Hans grinned. "Ya busy?"

"Nope. Ain't seen you in a while."

"Been workin' since I got expelled," Hans said. "At the Hawkins' farm."

"Didn't he get killed?" asked Richard.

"Yeah. The new fella don't need me. What're you doin'?"

"Nothin'," Richard said. "I worked in the general store for about a year, but I got fired."

"What did ya do?" Hans asked with interest.

"Nicked some cigars."

Hans laughed. "Ya know how to play poker?"

"Sure! Want a game?"

"Yeah, but let's go see if we can find some other fellas to join in; it'll be better with four."

"Alright." Richard crammed the last bite of bacon into his mouth and got up from the table. He and Hans walked back into town and after an hour or so had managed to find two slightly older boys to play poker with. Andrew and James were both from well off families who Jorgen knew. They were a year older than Hans and had been away at college, but had returned for a weekend break. The pair played poker in college and were delighted by the prospect of taking Hans and Richard's money.

The four of them headed for the main park, found a picnic bench under a tree some distance from any other activity and began the game. Richard, having little money to begin with, was soon out of the game, but watched with interest as Hans began to beat Andrew and James hands down, finishing with fifteen dollars in his pocket while the two college boys marched off in a temper.

"That was great!" exclaimed Richard. "Ya know, we oughta see if we can find Thomas, I know he plays. I'd love to see ya beat him, the bastard."

"Thought he was yer friend," Hans frowned.

"Nah. He was a bully in school, still is. Me and Will, the other little kid, just hung around with him so he wouldn't pick on us. We was happy when you gave him a beatin'."

Hans grinned. "Know where we can find him?"

"Yeah, he's got a job, but he finishes early on Saturdays. He'll be goin' to the cafe for his lunch about now."

"Here." Hans pulled some of the money out of his pocket and handed it to Richard.

"Ya can't give me that, you won fair and square," Richard protested.

"It's just four dollars so ya can join in the game. If ya win anythin' give me it back later," Hans said. "Let's go."

Sure enough, Thomas was at the cafe tucking into a plate of meat and potatoes. He was alone and looked up with a scowl when Hans and Richard approached.

"What do you two want?" he grunted.

"Heard ya play poker," Hans said, dropping onto the chair opposite. "Wanna play?"

"Why would I wanna play poker with you?" Thomas sneered, shovelling another forkful of food into his mouth.

"Dunno," Hans shrugged. "Maybe ya wanna get yer own back for me thrashin' ya in front of yer pals."

"That was years ago," Thomas reminded him. "I grew up. Seems like you ain't."

"Fair enough." Hans got up again, unfolded the rolled up bills which he held in one hand and flicked through them. "Gonna go and spend some of this. Ya comin', Richard?"

"Sure."

"Hey, wait a minute!" exclaimed Thomas suddenly. "Where'd ya get all that money?"

"I'm a Lausenstrom, remember?" grinned Hans. "Plenty more where this came from."

"Maybe I got time for a game," said Thomas.

"Alright. Not here, though. In the park," Hans said.

Thomas nodded, finished his meal quickly and walked with them as they headed back to the park and the picnic bench. Hans shuffled and dealt the cards and the game began. Thomas quickly proved that he knew what he was doing and won the first hand, taking all of Richard's money and some from Hans too. He was grinning now, confident he would clean out both boys and finish up a lot richer than he had when he sat down to lunch.

Hans realised he had been too relaxed, assuming Thomas would be as careless as the other two boys he had beaten. During the next hand he studied Thomas more closely, picking up on the little twitch at the corner of his mouth when he was pleased with his cards; the nervous flickering of his eyes when he wasn't. He thought he was being deadpan, but the subtle movements gave him away and Hans took every penny from him.

"Ya cheated!" Thomas exclaimed angrily as he got up from the bench an hour later.

"I didn't, I'm just better than you," Hans said mildly.

Thomas muttered something unintelligible under his breath and stalked off.

"How much ya got?" Richard asked at once, smirking.

"Twenty-five dollars. Time to go and spend some of it."

"What ya gonna buy?"

"Clothes," said Hans.

"_Clothes_?" Richard looked at him incredulously.

"Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

"Nothin', I guess. I gotta get goin'. Maybe see ya around town some time."

"Sure. See ya." Hans turned away and headed back towards the main part of town. Where should he go to buy clothes? They had some in the general store, but only the basics. His father had always taken him to the tailors for clothing. They always had dozens of suits and coats and pants and shirts in different colours and sizes, or they measured you up and made something special if you didn't like anything they had.

Hans stepped into the store and closed the door after him. The bell rang loudly and one of the two elderly men who ran the establishment came to greet him.

"Good afternoon, young Sir, what can we do for you?"

"I want a whole new outfit," Hans said, hoping he could get that for twenty-five dollars, otherwise he was going to look stupid when it came to pay for it. However, he was in for a nice surprise. The other proprietor walked over to help since there were no other customers in the store and he immediately recognised Hans.

"Young master Lausenstrom, isn't it?" he said with a smile. "We haven't seen your family in here for a while. The last time we fitted your brothers out for college."

"Oh, of course, it's Hans, isn't it?" the other man beamed. "I expect you'll be charging your purchases to your father's account, then?"

Hans grinned. "Yes, Sir." He allowed the two old men to show him most of their stock and decided he would rather buy off the rack than wait to have something made. He left the store just before closing, wearing a new dark suit with a deep red shirt and necktie underneath, new boots and a wide-brimmed black hat. Under his arm he carried a parcel wrapped in brown paper which held three more shirts and a tie to go with each. The two old tailors waved from the door as he strode up the street, then one returned to the store counter to add forty-three dollars to Jorgen Lausenstrom's account.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It wasn't until the following month that Jorgen discovered Hans had used his account at the tailors to obtain his new clothes. Pleased that his son had made some effort with his appearance, he hadn't bothered to question him about his resources, assuming he must have spent some of his pay from the farm which he had somehow saved. Jorgen happened to visit the tailors himself to order a new coat and one of the proprietors reminded him uncomfortably that his balance was overdue. He apologised and paid immediately, then hurried home afterwards to demand Hans reimburse him and refrain from using his name to obtain credit in the future.

"Sorry, Father," Hans shrugged. He went up to his room, pulled out the small box from beneath his bed where he kept his poker winnings and counted out forty-three dollars. The box was overflowing with money by now and he certainly wasn't going to miss it. He returned downstairs and handed over the cash.

"Where did you get this?" Jorgen asked, eyes widening.

"I earned it." Hans refused to say any more, despite his father's efforts to extract a proper answer from him.

Having realised that he could earn much more playing poker than working, Hans ceased looking for work, deciding that there was no point doing something you didn't like and having to answer to someone else for a pittance if you could play cards and be your own boss. He continued in the same vein until he reached sixteen, always keeping to opponents of a similar age rather than involve himself with more seasoned poker players. He had no doubt that he could beat them too, but would run more of a risk of his father finding out what he was doing.

In the meantime, he began to spend more time at Billy's house again when his friend was home from the farm and sometimes when he wasn't. Miss Lillian was always welcoming and usually gave him something to eat and entertained him with amusing stories from the saloon. Since reaching around twelve years old Hans had developed something of a crush on Miss Lillian, which only increased as he got older, but he would never have dared say anything to her, even considering her occupation. He would have been mortified to admit that he dreamed of stroking her beautiful black hair and touching the pale mounds of her breasts where they were visible above the low necks of her dresses, and more.

He continued to worship her from afar and live on fantasies until he decided it was high time he took the bull by the horns and went to the saloon. Billy had been telling him about his antics there for the past couple of years and it was only fear of being thrown out for being too young that had kept Hans away from the place. However, he decided not to tell Billy what he was planning. He was nervous enough about it and reasoned that if he ended up not going through with it, he would feel stupid if Billy was expecting to hear him boast. He went on a Monday night, knowing it was Miss Lillian's night off. He would feel uncomfortable going and paying for a woman with her there seeing what he was up to.

Hans hovered outside the saloon for perhaps fifteen minutes before he plucked up the courage to go in. Finally he took a deep breath and pushed through the swing doors, glancing around him. The place was full of men drinking, some playing poker, one or two enjoying the company of the saloon girls. He headed towards the bar a little self-consciously, wondering if Red Burrows, the barkeep, would even serve him a drink.

"Well, what we got here?" the burly man said, grinning at him as he reached the counter. "Bit young to be drinkin', ain't ya?"

"I'm old enough," Hans said gruffly.

"Well, so long as ya got the money, ya get a drink," Red shrugged.

Hans placed a coin on the counter and the man picked up a bottle, poured a measure of whiskey and pushed the glass towards him. Hans threw the contents of the glass down his throat in one gulp, wanting to look as if he was used to drinking. The whiskey burned its way down his throat to his stomach and he ground his teeth together, stopping himself from gasping and coughing with difficulty although his eyes watered just a touch. The drink left a delicious heat in his guts and a smooth slightly sweet taste in his mouth. He decided he could get used to it quite easily.

The barkeep grinned at him and moved away to serve another customer and Hans looked around him again, wondering whether to have another drink. He had no idea how to go about getting one of the women to entertain him. Did one speak to them direct or ask Red? He leaned on the bar and waited for the man to come back towards him, his heart thumping.

"Want another?" the man offered, still holding the bottle of whiskey.

"I…uh…I want a woman," Hans said.

"How old are ya?" Red asked, beginning to grin.

"Eighteen," lied Hans. He knew he could get away with that. He was already six feet tall and his voice had recently deepened.

"Hey, Joe," the barkeep said to one of a group of men further down the bar. The whole group turned to look. "This kid here wants a woman; whaddya reckon?"

"First time, is it?" one of them grinned and the others all laughed loudly.

Hans wanted to turn and walk out as quickly as possible, but he stayed where he was determinedly. He didn't often feel intimidated, but this was one of those times. He took another look around him, wondering where the women were. He could see a blonde over to the left chatting to one of the other customers. He turned back towards Red, his mouth dry, unsure of what to say or do next. Then a moment later a hand suddenly came to rest on his shoulder from behind and Lillian appeared beside him.

"Leave him alone, Red, what's wrong with ya?" she said to the barkeep. "Come on, honey." She grasped Hans by the hand now and began to lead him away from the bar. "What're ya doin' in here?" she asked. "Billy put ya up to it?"

"No," said Hans. "He don't know I'm here. I didn't know you'd be here either, I thought it was yer night off."

Lillian smiled and shook her head. "I'm coverin' for one of the girls who's sick. So yer after a woman tonight?"

"I guess."

Lillian led Hans through a door at the back of the room and then propped it open with her foot, pointing back into the crowded bar.

"There's three of 'em to choose from," she said, beginning to point. "The blonde over there is Cassie."

Hans looked in the direction she pointed. Cassie was blonde and brassy, dressed in blue and with lips painted the colour of plums.

"The redhead is Rebecca," went on Lillian. Rebecca had hair the colour of carrots and a face full of freckles.

"And Jenny." The last girl was blonde too, but petite and coy-looking - she was the one Hans had seen from the bar.

"Um…" Hans had never felt so uncomfortable in his life and was briefly reminded of the cattle market he had occasionally attended with Mr Hawkins. His heart hammered, his mouth was dry and his palms felt damp.

"I'd rather have you!" he blurted out and then much to his annoyance felt his face turning red. He felt about nine years old again, just like when he'd asked her to help him read Nana's letter. "Sorry, Miss Lillian," he muttered, staring down at his boots.

"Don't be sorry," Lillian said. "Yer a man now. Pick what pleases ya the most."

Hans looked up again, utterly amazed. He'd never imagined he could get close to her, whether he paid or not. She was thirty-two now, but Hans doubted she would ever lose her looks or seem old. To him she was the most attractive woman in Denver.

"I always thought ya was beautiful, Miss Lillian," he said. "More than any woman I ever saw."

"Well, thank you, Hans," Lillian said softly. "But ya can drop the 'miss'. It's just Lillian. You ain't a kid no more. Come with me." She slid her hand into his again and drew him away from the door, leading him down the dimly lit corridor to an open door at the end. The room was a bedroom decorated in soft lilacs and deep violets. Hans took a deep breath and followed Lillian into the room, pushing the door closed behind him.

Perhaps half an hour later, Hans wandered out of the bar and headed slowly for home, a grin on his face which he doubted he would be able to wipe off for quite some time. He didn't think he would sleep either, although he made the pretence of going up to his room to bed when he reached the house. He lay on top of the bed covers, still dressed, going over and over in his head what had happened and thinking to himself that he had better not go boasting to Billy now - best leave it until he had been with one of the other saloon girls.

At some point he must have drifted into sleep and he woke again early, wondering if he had dreamed it or if he'd really been with Lillian a few hours before. Grinning, he took a bath, put on some fresh clothes and went down for breakfast. Then he went out looking for someone to play poker with.

By the end of the day, Hans had doubled his money as he often did and decided to head for the cafe to get himself a meal rather than go home for dinner. He was just passing the end of the street down which Lillian and Billy lived when he ran into Billy, apparently on his way out again after returning from the farm. Hans halted and turned towards him.

"Hey, Billy." The response wasn't at all what he expected.

"Ya went with my _Ma_?" Billy's face was dark with fury, his eyes flashing and his fists clenched.

"Uhh..." Hans wasn't sure what to say. There had been a kind of unspoken agreement that neither he nor Lillian would ever mention what happened to Billy, and yet somehow he knew. "I didn't think she was gonna say nothin'," he said warily.

"She didn't, Cassie, one of the other girls told me!" Billy lunged forward suddenly and his fist slammed into Hans' jaw. Hans stumbled backwards, only just managing to stay on his feet. "_I can't believe ya did that_!" Billy all but screamed.

Hans took another step away, reluctant to fight back. "I didn't even know she was workin', I was gonna go to one of the others. Lillian came to me," he babbled. "I mean, she is a whore…." He immediately bit his tongue after the last few words.

"She practically treated ya like a son since you was six!" yelled Billy. "Show some respect!" He threw another punch and hit Hans in the other side of the jaw, then followed it up with a fist to the stomach. Hans bent over, winded, holding a hand up in front of his face to block any other punches, but still not retaliating.

"I do respect her," he panted. "More than anyone I know."

"Then you stay away from her!" snarled Billy, stepping forward again and shoving Hans hard, causing him to stumble and sit down suddenly in the dirt. Furious, Billy kicked out at his former friend, catching him hard in the face with the toe of his boot. Hans rolled onto his side, groaning and covering his face with both hands. The boot rammed into his chest and he began to choke, tasting blood and struggling to breathe.

"I'm sorry," he gasped.

"Ya will be if ya touch my ma again," Billy spat. "Stay away from me an' all. Or I'll kill ya, understand me?"

"Yeah," Hans groaned.

"Yer disgustin'!" Billy finished and charged off in the direction he had been going, leaving Hans crouching in the dirt by the wall which belonged to the first house in the street.

Hans stayed where he was for a few moments, trying to get his breath back, wiping blood off his face with his shirt sleeve and clutching his chest with one hand. He felt almost as if his ribs were crushing his lungs and the blood trickling down his throat threatened to make him vomit. Eventually he pulled himself to his feet, wondering how he was going to walk home without collapsing. He looked longingly down the street at Billy's house, knowing Lillian would be in there. It was fifty yards away and she wouldn't hesitate to take care of him, but he would never let her see him in that state, especially since she would find out Billy had caused his injuries. He turned away slowly and began to make his way home, ignoring the curious and horrified looks he received from passersby as they noticed the blood still oozing from his nose and mouth.

When he reached the house he was relieved to find that his father was out, but the housekeeper ran into him in the hallway before he could sneak upstairs.

"Oh my goodness! What on earth happened to you?" she exclaimed.

"Got in a fight," he said. "It's nothin'."

"It's not nothing! Have you seen yourself?" She grasped his arm and led him towards the kitchen. "Come with me, let's get you cleaned up before your father sees you."

"Where is he?" asked Hans.

"He had a client to see. He won't be back for a while yet."

Relieved, Hans sank onto one of the chairs by the kitchen table and closed his eyes while the housekeeper fetched a bowl of water and cloths to clean up his face.

"I should probably send for the doctor," she said as she washed the blood out of the cloth she had used.

"No! Don't do that, I'll be alright," Hans protested. "Nothin's broken. I just need to go to bed." He got up painfully and made his way upstairs, feeling sick and wanting nothing more than to go to sleep and forget about everything. His injuries would soon heal, but he knew his friendship with Billy wouldn't. That was gone forever.


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

Hans stayed in his room for the next couple of days to avoid his father seeing him. He shoved his chest in front of the door and responded to his father hammering on it by saying he was sick and thought he had eaten something bad. Jorgen suggested sending for the doctor, but Hans persuaded him that he wasn't sufficiently ill to waste the man's time and incur a bill. Meanwhile the housekeeper slipped food up to the room for him whenever Jorgen was out or too busy to notice. Two days later Jorgen took a trip to Chicago to visit Lars and Leif and to see a client there, leaving the housekeeper with instructions to call the doctor the next day if Hans was no better. Hans left his room at last and lounged about in the drawing room instead until he ceased to look as if he'd been run down by a wagon.

Hans went back to his poker games a few days later, but avoided the saloon for the next few weeks, somehow convinced that Billy would be in there lying in wait for him. Of course this wasn't the case and when he at last ventured back there, again on a Monday, Red actually seemed pleased to see him.

"Ain't seen ya in a while," he commented. "Thought Lillian must've put ya off for life. Almost considered firin' her."

"Don't do that!" exclaimed Hans anxiously.

Red laughed. "Don't be stupid, boy, think I'd fire my best whore? She ain't in tonight, if that's what yer after."

"Uh….no….I'll have a whiskey, please. I was wonderin' if Jenny's free."

"Jenny? Sure, she's in the back." Red poured a whiskey and pushed it across the bar to Hans. "That'll be five bucks altogether." He turned towards the door behind him. "Jen! Get out here, ya got a customer!"

Hans liked Jenny, but it didn't stop him paying for Cassie and Rebecca over the next few weeks too. He always went in on a Monday when it was doubtful Lillian would be working, much as he longed to see her. However, he also began joining in some of the poker games Red held in the saloon and subsequently found himself in there on Fridays and Saturdays when most games were held. Despite now playing against older more experienced players, he still won probably seventy-five per cent of the time and had decided that gambling was an ideal career for him. A few months later he was forced to rethink this decision.

It was a Saturday and Hans had been in the bar for most of the afternoon, drinking whiskey, smoking cigars which he had recently started doing, and playing poker. Red planned to hold a high stakes game starting at eight o'clock and Hans had been playing all afternoon to raise the entry stake, which was a hundred dollars.

Lillian, Cassie and Rebecca were working that night and wandered around the groups of men watching the game, chatting and flirting. Before the big game started, Lillian came over to speak to Hans.

"Hey," she said softly. "You ain't been 'round the house in a while. Ya gone shy on me?"

"'Course not," Hans said.

"So what's wrong?"

"Billy ain't said nothin'?"

"No. Ya had a fallin' out?"

"Somethin' like that." Hans was reluctant to add to this and was saved from having to elaborate by Red announcing the beginning of the game. Four other players put their hundred dollars into the pot and Hans went to the table and joined in. Lillian brought him another large measure of whiskey and then disappeared from view somewhere behind him.

The game began and Hans held his own, one of the other four men being the first to toss his losing cards on the table and leave the saloon. The game continued and another man left after two more hands. Cassie poured more drinks and Red called a fifteen minute break. Hans' remaining two opponents went to the outhouse and then spent a few minutes with Cassie and Rebecca, while Hans himself remained at the table, smoking another cigar and concentrating on sipping his drink more slowly. The last thing he wanted was to impair his senses at this crucial point.

Lillian sat down on the free chair beside him and he glanced around, noticing that Cassie and her big mouth was now leading one of the customers off to her room. He couldn't help himself and after another brief look around, he slid his arm around Lillian and stroked his fingers through her hair. She leaned closer to him and brushed her lips against his ear.

"Wanna play some more after the game?" she whispered.

Hans grinned. "Try stoppin' me."

"Put him down, Lillian, game's about to restart," Red interrupted with a chuckle.

Lillian kissed Hans on the cheek and got to her feet, going to stand behind him as the other two poker players took their seats again. The game resumed and Hans, a little distracted by the thought of Lillian entertaining him later, despite the risk of Billy finding out again, lost a hand. He cursed himself silently and forced himself to concentrate. No way was he going to lose to these two old fellas.

Fifteen minutes later and one of the men was out of the game. Hans' only remaining opponent was a business man in his forties, know only as Mr Stevens. He was cold and unreadable and despite his best efforts, Hans had been unable to find a single thing about him that gave away whether his cards were good or bad. He fought down his nerves determinedly, somehow retaining his usual relaxed expression although his heart was thumping and his mouth dry. If he won this, he'd have enough money to leave Denver, buy his own place, do whatever he wanted.

He lost the next hand. Damnit, he'd met his match finally. Mr Stevens was good and he didn't like the way things were going. There was a lot of money on the table and he'd lost the lot. He was down to about a hundred and fifty dollars and he knew the next hand was going to be the last. The cards were dealt and his opponent studied his carefully, then made his wager. Hans matched it and raised him. More money went into the pile and then Mr Stevens interrupted the game for a moment.

"Bring me another drink," he instructed, turning away from the table to look up at Rebecca who was behind him. Rebecca hurried to the bar and returned with a bottle. The attention of just about everyone else in the saloon was on this rich city guy and Hans took the opportunity to do the stupidest thing he'd ever done in his life. He slipped the two cards off the top of the pack he kept in his pocket and swapped them for two in his hand. No one saw him and his own pack was identical to Red's. He always kept his aces on the top of the pile and now he had three aces and two Queens in his hand. That would beat just about anything, unless by some poor stroke of luck the other man also had three aces. He figured it was worth the risk.

Mr Stevens laid his cards down on the table – three Kings and the other two Queens. Hans inwardly heaved a sigh of relief and put his cards down; the winning hand. It was all his. Suddenly there was an uproar and the next minute ticked by seemingly in slow motion.

"You cheated." Steely grey eyes met Hans' blue ones as he waited for a response.

"The hell I did!" Hans decided indignance was the best way to go.

"I saw you," the man said quietly. "You exchanged two cards in your hand for two in your pocket. I expect if you look through the remainder of the pack on the table you will find two identical cards to those in your hand."

Hans opened his mouth to continue protesting his innocence, but much to his shock, found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Ironically he noticed it was gleaming black and obviously either new or extremely well cared for.

"Damn fool kid," Red muttered from a few feet away.

"I ain't a fool." Hans shoved his chair back a few inches.

"Stay where you are!" His opponent pulled back the hammer. "You're going to admit to these fine people here that you're a cheat and effectively a thief."

"Go to hell," Hans growled bravely, his pride refusing to allow him to back down.

"I fear you may beat me to it."

"Put the gun away, fella," Red interjected suddenly.

"Be quiet." Mr Stevens swung his hand a fraction to the left, briefly aiming at Red before he returned to Hans. "I'm still waiting for your apology," he said.

"Ya'll have a long wait," Hans said, realising he was digging a deeper hole for himself, but still refusing to give in. He only wished he had his own gun so he wouldn't have to rely solely on bravado.

Mr Stevens pulled the trigger. The gun was perhaps three feet from Hans, but by some incredible stroke of luck, the boy threw himself off his chair a split second before the bullet exploded out of the barrel. Hans found himself on his knees, half under the table, huddling tighter into a ball as a second shot was fired, much louder than the first. Peering upwards, he saw Red holding a smoking shotgun and realised he must have shot Mr Stevens. The girls were screaming and a number of the bar's customers began stampeding for the door while the rest remained, uttering shocked exclamations.

Hans turned his head the other way and found himself staring straight into Lillian's face. She was lying on the floor beside him, her eyes wide and gazing unblinkingly into his while blood gushed from a wound right between her breasts. She had taken the bullet meant for him.

"Lillian? Oh, God," he gasped. "What've I done?" He reached out to touch her impossibly white face, but his wrist was suddenly grabbed in a large fist and he was hauled out from beneath the table and onto his feet. He looked back into Red's furious face.

"Get outta here," the barkeep snarled. "Ya set foot in here again, I'll take a gun to ya myself."

Hans looked around him, seeing the horrified faces of the remaining customers, Cassie and Rebecca clinging to each other and weeping, Mr Stevens' body slumped back in his chair, the front of his smart suit more red than grey, the pile of money on the table still untouched. He left it there and stumbled across the room, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the end of the bar just before he shoved through the swing doors and out into the street.

He was shaking all over and felt sick to his stomach as he wandered aimlessly away from the town. He found himself on the path leading towards the Hawkins farm, or the Carlisle farm as it was now and he walked on slowly, stopping somewhere approximately a mile from town in the black shade offered by a small wooded area. He sank to the ground beneath a huge oak and took a long drink from the bottle, gasping as the whiskey hit his churning stomach. He should have stayed in the chair. It was all he could think of. Lillian was dead and it was his fault. Beautiful Lillian who had been so much to him over the years; mother, sister, friend, teacher, lover. Killed because of a stupid seventeen-year-old boy cheating at cards.

Hans leaned back against the tree trunk, his eyes squeezed shut as he gradually worked his way through the rest of the bottle of whiskey, desperate to blot out the anguish he felt. He eventually slid into unconsciousness, but his brief reprieve was interrupted just a few short hours later when he was disturbed by a horse and rider galloping along the path nearby.

He opened his eyes slowly, his head pounding from the hangover and for a short moment wondered what on earth he was doing sleeping in the woods. Then it all came flooding back and he shuddered and pulled himself to his feet, not even bothering to brush away the tears that sprang into his eyes as he began to make his way back towards town. He still felt sick from the horror of what had happened in the saloon, but also from dread as he headed for the Jenkins house. He had to tell Billy.

It was barely seven o'clock when Hans knocked on the door. He waited for more than a minute, shivering miserably and hoping that Billy would carry out his threat to kill him, thus putting an end to his torture. Just as he was about to knock again, the door swung open.

Billy's face was white, his eyes red and he just stared at Hans without saying a word. He already knew and Hans racked his brains for something to say.

"Tryin' to think of an excuse?" Billy said hoarsely.

"There's no excuse," said Hans, avoiding Billy's eyes. "It's my fault. I don't know what to say."

"Ain't no point sayin' nothin'," Billy said. "Ya can't take it back, can ya?" He sighed heavily. "Why'd ya even bother comin' here?"

"I…I dunno. To explain."

"Explain? Ya cheated at poker and threw yerself on the floor like a coward while my ma took the bullet. How ya gonna explain that, Hans?" Billy said bitterly. "What is it with ya? Causin' yer own ma's death not enough for ya; ya gotta kill mine an' all?"

Hans felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of him and he found himself unable to speak.

"What's wrong now?" sneered Billy. "Ain't ya never wondered why yer pa don't give a damn about ya?"

"Ya don't know nothin' about it," Hans muttered.

"I know plenty; ya spent enough time whinin' about it. Let me give ya some advice, Hans. Get the hell outta this town and don't ever come back. No one wants ya here – not even yer own family."

"I'm sorry," Hans whispered.

"Yeah, until the next time."

Billy closed the door in his face and it was a long moment before he turned away and walked slowly towards home. Billy's words echoed around his thumping head over and over; 'causin' yer own ma's death'; 'yer pa don't give a damn about ya'; 'no one wants ya here'.


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hans barely set foot out of his room for the next week, except to go down to the dining room for dinner each evening where he picked half-heartedly at his food and tried to avoid his father's questions as to why he wasn't out working, or looking for work. He was fortunate in that as usual Jorgen had business on his mind and didn't pay a great deal of attention to him.

Billy's words continued to haunt him and he couldn't get the image of Lillian's face right after she died out of his head. He knew it was his fault; everything had been his fault and he hated himself, even more than he assumed everyone else did. Other than Nana he had never really cared about anyone except Lillian and now she was gone and he felt as if a huge weight had landed on top of him and was crushing him.

He didn't know how he would ever forget what had happened. If only he could leave Denver as Billy had suggested, but even that was out of reach now, at least for the moment, with every penny he'd won over the past months left behind in the saloon. He was back to square one, only now he couldn't set foot in the saloon again and if word got around that he was a cheat, he would be unable to continue his career in poker.

"Hans!"

His father's voice jerked him out of his unhappy thoughts and he looked up slowly. It was Thursday evening and Jorgen had just returned from some business meeting or other.

"I've been hearing some extremely worrying things about what you have been doing recently."

Hans said nothing, but simply waited for his father to continue. He doubted things could get any worse for him.

"Playing poker? Visiting the saloon? I didn't raise you to have such a complete lack of morals that you would gamble and mix with _those _types. I thought I told you to stay away from that Jenkins trollop!"

Apparently Jorgen hadn't heard the worst of the news, but his condescending tone and reiteration of his constant disapproval of Hans over the years cut through the pain he was suffering and he shoved himself out of the chair he was sitting in and faced his father. He had never forgotten his discovery of how Jorgen knew Lillian.

"Lack of morals?" Hans spat. "Look who's talkin'. A high and mighty hypocrite, judgin' me when yer no better."

"I beg your pardon?" Jorgen clenched his teeth and his jaw twitched at the impudence of the young man in front of him. "How dare you speak to me like that!"

"Did ya think I wouldn't find out how ya knew Lillian?" Hans demanded. "Like father like son, only ya don't wanna admit it."

Jorgen's face reddened a touch and after a moment's hesitation he began to bluster. "I might have known that creature would gossip. I told you to stay away from her and her bastard son, although you obviously ignored me."

"Good thing I did, she taught me plenty," said Hans.

"I can only imagine…" Jorgen's voice trailed off in disgust.

"To read and write, for instance," Hans sneered.

"What?" Jorgen looked genuinely surprised.

"Ya heard me."

"I'm amazed that her sort has any skills in literacy," Jorgen said.

"Yeah, ya would be," said Hans. Despite everything, there was still some tiny part of him that was hurt by the fact that his admission to not being illiterate after all made no impression on his father. He should have expected it; Jorgen had never been proud of him for anything and never would be.

"So what do you intend to do with yourself now?" asked Jorgen. "Spend your life gambling and consorting with Lillian Jenkins, who is old enough to be your mother in case you'd forgotten?"

"Lillian's dead," Hans said. "So ya won't have to worry about that."

Jorgen's eyes narrowed, but he didn't ask Hans to elaborate. "You've always been a disappointment to me," he sighed, his temper subsiding.

"Yeah, I know. Ya'd still have a wife if I hadn't been born," Hans said bitterly.

"I've never said that," Jorgen protested, a little uncomfortable as he remembered saying exactly that when Hans was a baby.

"Maybe not, but ya thought it. Lars and Leif did too."

"You've always been so damned difficult," Jorgen said, his voice tinged with regret.

"Probably 'cause I felt ya didn't want me." Hans pulled his head up and swallowed the lump in his throat. "Ya never will."

"That's not the case, Hans, but I can't have you repeatedly bringing this family's name into disrepute," said Jorgen stiffly. "You seem to think you're an adult so it's about time you took some responsibility for yourself. I would suggest you find yourself a decent occupation and a more suitable place to live."

"Fine, I'll go," Hans said through his teeth. He turned away from his father without another word and pulled open the drawing room door.

"Wait a minute," Jorgen said, without a great deal of enthusiasm.

"Save yer breath," grunted Hans. "Ain't nothin' more to say."

He spent the rest of the evening packing everything he wanted into a single large case and scouring his room in the hopes he would find at least a small amount of money somewhere. There was still ten dollars in the box beneath the bed and he shoved it into his pocket.

No one disturbed him during the last hour he spent in his room and when he headed down the stairs with the case in one hand, he saw neither his father nor the housekeeper or cook. He left the house, closing the door quietly behind him and walked away without looking back.

Hans used three dollars to pay for a single night in the boarding house on the north side of town – about as far from the saloon and the Jenkins house as he could get. He lay awake on top of the bed covers all night, wishing he had a bottle of whiskey to blot out his misery and self-loathing, but unwilling to part with a penny of his last seven dollars unless he was forced to. He longed to leave Denver, but was well aware that he was stuck there until he earned or won the means to do so.

The next morning he forced himself to eat the breakfast provided by the boarding house and then went out, promising the proprietor to return by lunchtime to either remove the case from his room, or pay for another night. By ten-thirty he found himself doing the only thing he was any good at – playing poker in the park with a couple of similar-aged youths, neither of whom were any richer than he was himself. He took every penny from both of them and returned to the boarding house with twenty dollars in his pocket, with which he paid for two more nights, bought dinner from a nearby café and kept the rest to gamble with the next day.

The second night he slept fitfully, dozing off with exhaustion, but waking every so often when he was disturbed by unhappy dreams. He rose the next morning feeling as worthless as his father had repeatedly told him he was over the years, but with renewed determination that he wasn't going to remain that way. He'd make enough money to get out of Denver and have a business of some kind, if it took him years to do it. The only thing he would regret leaving behind was Nana, but that was probably for the best. At least if he lived far enough away she would never have to see what he was really doing and never have to be ashamed of him as he was of himself.

Hans remained at the boarding house for six months. The proprietor, Mrs Brady, began to see him as a permanent guest and even took to making him dinner when he wanted it. She was able to rely on his money every week and he never caused any trouble like some of her more unruly guests. He came and went and when he was in his room, he was silent. Once or twice he helped evict unpleasant customers who had failed to pay their bills or gotten drunk in the house and caused some kind of a ruckus. She didn't know what he did for a living, but didn't particularly care so long as he behaved himself and paid in a timely manner. He was polite and well-dressed and she only wished the rest of her guests were like him.

Most days, Hans found someone or other to play poker with. There was a small bar close to the boarding house and no one there knew anything about him. One or two of the men frequenting the establishment had gossiped about the whore and the businessman who had been shot in Red Burrows' place across town, but they didn't appear to know how it had happened or who else had been involved. Hans drank and smoked with them and took their money on a regular basis. Occasionally he lost, but he didn't complain and he never tried to cheat.

He spent his eighteenth birthday alone in his room except for a brief trip down to the kitchen to eat the plateful of meat pie Mrs Brady had made for him. Then he returned upstairs and counted the money he had hidden between the base of his bed and the mattress. He had had a run of bad luck recently, but there was still almost two hundred dollars there. He decided to go looking for a horse to buy and also a gun. Maybe at last he could set off to find a new life for himself.

The next day Hans went to the small store at the end of the street which sold guns. The proprietor was old and wizened and peered at him through thick spectacles. He showed Hans a variety of weapons, from handguns which resided in a holster one strapped around one's hips, to shotguns similar to the one Red had used to blow away Mr Stevens.

Hans picked up a handgun from the counter and studied it, testing the weight of it and how it felt in his hand. He pulled the trigger and heard the distinctive click of the empty chamber.

"How much?" he asked.

"Twenty dollars. Plus five for the holster and three for a box of ammunition."

"I'll take them," Hans said, pulling some bills from his pocket and counting out twenty-eight dollars. He left the store minutes later with the gun strapped to his hip, feeling as if he had suddenly grown in both height and strength. Nobody could hurt him now.

He stayed on at the boarding house a few more weeks, reasoning that buying a horse and riding off into the middle of nowhere with a gun he probably couldn't shoot straight was foolhardy. He went out of town every day and practised shooting trees and then empty bottles balanced on rocks, eventually moving further and further away from his targets until he could hit a scurrying rabbit from thirty yards. Only then did he decide he was ready to venture south looking for his future.

Hans left the boarding house the next morning and went to enquire at the blacksmiths about buying a horse. He was out of luck and the man had sold his last animal only the previous day.

"I'll be getting some more from the market on Friday – come by around two and you can take your pick," the blacksmith said.

"Sure, thanks," Hans said. He could wait two more days.

He headed for the bar, strolling slowly along the street and gazing about him, thinking about leaving everything he saw behind. There was nothing to keep him there. He turned the corner into the next street where the bar was situated and stopped dead as he almost collided with a young lady.

"Excuse me," he said.

"It's my fault, I wasn't lookin' where I'm goin'," she said, smiling up at him. He looked down into her eyes and noticed they were an unusual shade of light brown; actually he would have said they were almost gold. Her blonde hair was held away from her face with combs and cascaded down her back in a mass of waves and curls. She was wearing a striped dress in several shades of green and her lips were enhanced with a touch of deep pink colour. She giggled now as Hans stared at her, speechless.

"Cat got your tongue?" she teased.

Hans grinned. "Guess I ain't used to seein' such beauty in Denver."

"Well, thank you." Her cheeks dimpled. "Just arrived this mornin'. I'm lookin' for a place to stay; do ya know of anywhere?"

"Sure, there's a boardin' house back that way," Hans said, pointing. "I'm stayin' there myself as a matter of fact."

"Well, perhaps you'd show me the way," she said, tucking her hand through his arm.

"Come with me." He turned and began to lead her back up the street away from the bar.

"What's your name?" she asked.

Hans opened his mouth to reply and then paused to draw his companion out of the way of two riders trotting down the middle of the street.

"Wait up, Hank, this nag's thrown a shoe," the second rider called out.

"Busy town," the lady commented to Hans.

"Yeah." At least he wasn't planning on staying much longer. He was about to start a whole new life.

"So what's your name?" she reminded him.

"Hank," he said. New life, new name. "Lausenst…..Lawson. Hank Lawson."

"Nice to meet ya, Hank Lawson." She squeezed his arm and smiled up at him. "I'm Clarice."


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Where ya from?" Hank asked as he led Clarice towards the boarding house.

"Here and there. What about you?"

"I always lived in Denver up to now, but I'm plannin' on leavin' pretty soon."

"Not too soon, I hope, I only just met ya!"

Hank grinned. "Maybe I'll hang around a while. What made ya come to Denver?"

"Ain't never been before."

Hank glanced at her. With her smart dress and fancy hair arrangement she looked like a lady, but she sure didn't sound like one. She talked like Lillian.

"Ya got luggage or anythin'?" he asked her.

"No. Just what I'm standin' up in. I kinda left the last place in a hurry."

"Where was the last place?"

"I forget. Small town a couple hours east from here."

"No family there?"

"No family anywhere."

"Me neither," agreed Hank. "Except for my Grandma. She lives outta town." He pulled open the door of the boarding house and stood back to allow Clarice to enter first. She whirled past him into the hallway.

"Mrs Brady?" Hank called. "Got a new boarder for ya!"

"Hank," Clarice said softly, turning towards him. "I know this is kinda cheeky, but can ya lend me a night's board? Like I said, I left in a rush with only enough for the stagecoach. I'll pay ya back. Soon as I get a job."

"No problem." Hank pulled some money out of his pocket and handed her ten dollars. "That'll get ya three nights with breakfast."

"Thank you." Clarice slipped the bills into her purse and then turned to face Mrs Brady.

"This is Clarice," Hank said. "She's lookin' for a room."

"I'm new in town," Clarice added.

Mrs Brady looked her up and down approvingly and advised her that board was three dollars a night.

"I'll stay for three," the girl said. "I'm hopin' to get a job quickly, but I'll let ya know if I'm to stay longer."

"Very well." Mrs Brady handed her a key. "Top of the stairs, second door along. Outhouse is in the back, bath tub through there." She pointed to a closed door. "Breakfast at eight in the kitchen there if ya want it."

"Thanks," Clarice nodded, turning back to Hank with a smile.

"I'll show ya 'round the town if ya like," he said now, unable to believe his luck that such a beautiful girl had arrived and apparently liked his company.

"Sure, that'll be good."

Hank spent the rest of the day with Clarice. They wandered around the centre of Denver, looking in store windows and chatting. Despite Clarice's apparent love of talking, she said very little about herself and all Hank actually found out about her was that she had lived in Chicago when she was a child and was now twenty-three years old, five years his senior. She apparently had no roots anywhere and replied to his question about what she did for a living with 'this and that'. He overlooked her reluctance to tell him anything about herself in his delight that she was showing such an interest in him.

When evening approached, Hank took her to the café close to the boarding house and bought supper for them both before taking her back to their accommodation.

"I think I'll get an early night," Clarice said, yawning as they stood in the hallway. "It's been a long day."

"Sure. I'm gonna go out again. Maybe I'll see ya at breakfast," Hank said.

"Maybe ya will." Much to Hank's surprise, Clarice reached up and brushed her lips against his cheek before she hurried off up the stairs.

Unable to wipe the grin off his face, Hank went out again and strolled down to the bar. He spent the rest of the evening playing a few games of poker, drinking and smoking, looking forward to breakfast the following morning. By the time he returned to the boarding house it was after midnight and he went to bed, but found himself unable to sleep, his mind filled with thoughts of the lovely Clarice and what they might do together the next day.

However, Hank was to be disappointed in the morning when he ate breakfast alone. Mrs Brady said 'the young miss' hadn't risen yet and by the time the meal was finished there was still no sign of her. Hank debated hanging around the building until she appeared, but fearing he would seem too desperate, took off to find someone to play poker with. His plans to leave Denver left him for the moment as he thought of Clarice all day, wondering what she was doing. He didn't see her until the evening when she appeared at the café where he had just ordered supper.

"Hey, Hank." She threw herself onto the chair opposite before he could even get up.

"Clarice!" He put down his knife and fork, food forgotten. "What ya been doin' today?"

"Lookin' for work. Sorry I missed ya this mornin', I was too darn tired to get up."

"It's alright. Did ya find a job?" asked Hank.

"Not yet, but I will soon. I'll be able to pay ya back in no time."

"There's no rush," Hank said. The café owner appeared then to ask if Clarice wanted a meal. She glanced sheepishly at Hank, her cheeks dimpling with an appealing smile.

"She'll have what I'm havin'," said Hank, handing over another fifty cents.

"Thank you, Hank," Clarice purred when the woman had walked off. "I feel so bad spendin' all yer money. Ya'll get it back outta my first wages, I promise."

"Don't worry about the meal, I'm happy to buy ya dinner," Hank said at once.

Clarice reached across the table and slid her hand into his. "Ya spoil me," she whispered.

After supper, they walked back to the boarding house, Hank now glad of the excuse to have an early night after the previous restless one.

"I ain't goin' in yet, I feel like a walk," Clarice told him. She let go his arm and slid both her hands into his instead. "I'll see ya tomorrow. I'll try to get up for breakfast this time."

She looked up at him, her curious golden eyes laughing, her pink lips soft and inviting, revealing small white teeth. Hank bent to kiss her, his heart thumping rapidly. His mouth touched hers and she responded immediately, her lips teasing and caressing, her hands pulling free of his to slide around him instead. He drew her closer, holding her tight against his body as his tongue plunged into her mouth, his pulse racing. He was disappointed when she pulled out of his arms a moment later and stepped back, smoothing down her dress. She gave him a little smile and then turned and walked away.

Hank watched until she was out of sight, then went into the boarding house and up to his room where he paced around irritably, still able to taste Clarice's lips. Maybe he should have invited her up to his room. She didn't seem in the least shy, but then again he'd only ever been with whores so didn't know what to expect if he tried taking things further too quickly. He spent another restless night thinking about it and decided he would just have to see how things went.

When Hank went down for breakfast at eight-fifteen the next morning he found Clarice already at the table along with two other guests who were staying at the boarding house.

"'Mornin', all," he said, sitting down opposite her.

"'Mornin', Hank," she replied softly. The two elderly men who were the other boarders merely nodded.

"What're ya doin' today, Clarice?" he asked.

"Lookin' for a job again," she said with a sigh. "Maybe we can meet for lunch?"

"Sure." He thought for a moment. "Or maybe I can get some food from the café and we can go for a picnic."

"Just you and me, yes, that'd be nice," Clarice said at once.

He grinned back at her and ignored the disapproving glance of the two old men. After breakfast Clarice went out to look for work and Hank persuaded Mrs Brady to make up a picnic for the pair of them.

"She's a lovely young lady," the woman said, handing Hank a basket.

"Yeah, she is."

"Just be careful, I don't wanna be hearin' of any funny business in my house," Mrs Brady said sternly.

Hank grinned and handed her a dollar. "Thanks for the picnic."

He met Clarice at one o'clock on the other side of the town and they went walking into the wooded area on the way to the Carlisle farm. There was a creek down there and it afforded a nice place to picnic.

"How'd ya get on? Find a job yet?" asked Hank as they tucked into the food.

"I got an offer; I'm thinkin' about it," Clarice replied, but didn't elaborate.

She shuffled closer to Hank's side, resting one hand on his knee and he forgot to ask her what the job was, his pulse immediately beginning to race. He moved the picnic basket out of the way and slid his arms around her, stroking his hand through her long blonde hair as they kissed. She was wearing it loose today and it ran through his fingers like silk.

After a couple of minutes' hesitation, Hank removed his hand from her hair and touched her breast instead, almost expecting her to push him away. However, she kissed him even more heatedly and eventually unfastened half a dozen buttons of her dress and beneath it, her chemise, allowing her breasts to spill out into his hands. He squeezed the soft flesh, stroking his thumbs over the nipples, unable to believe his luck that such a beautiful and eager young woman had fallen right into his lap. Fallen into his lap in a literal sense, he thought, as she rose from the ground, rearranged her skirts and kneeled with one leg either side of his thighs. It occurred to him that at this point it didn't seem likely that she would put a stop to anything he did and he pushed the long skirts upwards to reveal the tops of her black stockings and above them, the pale flesh of her thighs.

Clarice quickly began to relieve Hank of his clothes' deftly unfastening his necktie, the buttons of his shirt, pushing both coat and shirt off his shoulders. His heart thumped wildly and he gripped her tightly, pulling her hips forward so she sat upon the aching part of him still trapped inside his pants. He reached down to unfasten them, biting his lip to suppress a groan. It was then that Clarice pulled back a few inches.

"Woah, wait a minute," she said.

"Huh?"

She didn't answer, but reached behind her to retrieve her purse which lay on the grass. She took something out of it and Hank frowned when he realised it was a rubber. Lillian and the other girls at the saloon always had those - damned things. It surprised him even more than Clarice's eagerness; she so obviously knew what she was doing and was prepared to be doing it.

He stopped thinking and sucked his breath in hard as she slid onto him, forgetting about everything other than the feel of her, the heat of her, the sound of her breathing in his ear, her nails digging hard into his shoulders.

Afterwards she drew away from him and sat beside him on the grass, giving him soft little kisses between breathless gasps as she refastened her dress. He found himself incapable of coherent thought and knew only that he didn't want to let her go.

They walked slowly back to town, hand in hand, Hank doing his best not to grin like a fool. He was disappointed when Clarice said she intended to go back and see about the job and would meet him later for supper. He wanted to spend every minute with her, but would never have said so; she would probably laugh in that light giggly manner she had. He let her go with a sigh and returned to the boarding house to give Mrs Brady her basket and freshen up. Then he began to count off the hours until supper time.

Clarice was late to the café and they had stopped serving by the time she arrived. Hank had picked at a plate of meatloaf, but found himself too excited and anxious to eat and left most of it.

"Sorry, Hank, time goes too fast sometimes," Clarice said, leading him away from the café. "I took the job!"

"That's great," said Hank. "What is it?"

"Workin' in a bar. It's good money; I start tonight so I can pay ya back tomorrow. I'll ask for an advance."

"An advance? Who's gonna pay an advance?" Hank frowned. "Who ya workin' for?"

"Fella named Red Burrows."

"_Red?_" Hank stopped suddenly and stared at her in dismay.

"Ya know him?" Clarice asked nonchalantly.

"Yeah, I know him."

"Ain't he a good boss?"

"Clarice, the only girls that work for him are whores," Hank said, feeling a little sick.

"I know that, Hank, I didn't come down in the last shower." Clarice's cheeks dimpled and she let out a little giggle. "Entertainin's good money; pays more than most jobs a girl can get."

"Ya done that before?"

"Sure. Ya didn't think I was innocent, did ya?" She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his ear. "Don't worry, I ain't gonna start chargin' ya."

Hank pulled away, puzzled by the new feeling of shock and anger and disappointment. His stomach had coiled itself into a knot and his heart felt like it had sunk down to his boots as he imagined Clarice – _his_ Clarice – entertaining the regulars in Red Burrows' saloon. He hated the thought of it.

"I don't want ya workin' there," he grunted.

"Well, it ain't about what you want, Hank," she said, her smile disappearing. "This is what I do. Yer gonna have to live with it if ya wanna be with me."

"Ya gonna live there?" asked Hank stiffly.

"No. Said I'd rather not; don't wanna be under Red's thumb the whole time. Seems one of his other girls had her own place, but she had a kid. I can usually get what I want though."

Hank flinched and looked away from her. Even after so much time had gone by, he doubted he would ever forget Lillian's death or the fact that he caused it. Clarice mistook his expression for disapproval and simply shrugged.

"Well, it's up to you," she said. "I like ya, but I ain't bein' told where to work. I'm goin' now, don't wanna be late. I guess I'll see ya tomorrow." She turned away from him and strode off briskly towards town.

Hank walked off in the opposite direction, sick, angry and upset and wondering how he was going to deal with this. He certainly didn't want to give her up, but how could he live with her sleeping with other men? He spun around suddenly and slammed his fist into the wooden wall of a lean-to attached to a nearby house. The rotten wood gave way and his fist went right through, leaving his knuckles grazed and splinters embedded in the back of his hand. Immediately an old man appeared out of the house.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, taking a step towards Hank. Then taking in the fury in the young man's face and his clenched fists, the man backed away and retreated indoors. Rather his lean-to than himself.

Hank stalked back the way he had come and went into the bar, suddenly longing for a large whiskey. The drink quickly became several and he slowly drowned his temper and anguish, although nothing could quite blot out the thought of Clarice working in Red's saloon.


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Hank opened his eyes slowly. Something had disturbed him, but he wasn't sure what until another tap came on the door. It was daylight and judging by the angle of the sunlight shining in the window it must be approaching noon. He realised he couldn't even remember returning to his room at the boarding house and discovered he was lying on top of the quilt, still dressed, his mouth dry and foul-tasting. His head felt as if someone had hit it with a hammer. He sat up with a groan and slowly got to his feet, gulped a glass of water and then washed his face in the bowl on the chest in front of the window.

"Hank? You alright?" Clarice's voice came through the door.

Everything that had happened the previous day came flooding back; their picnic and subsequent antics and then Clarice telling him she had a job at Red Burrows' saloon; that she was a whore.

"Hank!"

"Yeah!" He grimaced as his head pounded more in response to the shout and went to open the door.

Clarice was leaning against the wall outside, wearing a new dress of deep blue trimmed with black lace, her hair piled up on top of her head and pinned there with little tendrils escaping around her neck. She was beautiful and as she gazed at him with a smile he decided on the spot that somehow he would cope with her job as long as he could have her. She held out a cup of steaming coffee.

"Figured ya might want this. Ya slept half the day away."

"Thanks." He took the cup and gulped some of the coffee, immediately beginning to feel better.

Clarice stepped closer to him and reached up to give him a quick kiss. "It's just a job, ya know, Hank," she said softly. "I'm with you, right?"

"I guess."

"So stop worryin' about it." Another little kiss. "What're ya gonna do today?"

"I dunno. Play poker, I guess," he grinned.

"Wanna have lunch at the café? My treat," Clarice offered.

"I ain't havin' a woman buy me lunch," said Hank. "I'll pay."

"Alright, but you ain't gonna say no to this." She held out some folded bills. "This is what I owe ya, for gettin' the room for me."

Hank took it and counted ten dollars, then nodded and put the money into his pocket. "Give me fifteen minutes and I'll be ready," he said.

Clarice left him to it and he quickly stripped off his rumpled clothes, washed up and put on a fresh shirt and suit, then went downstairs to meet her, his anger and misery of the previous night almost forgotten.

The next few months flew by and for a while Hank forgot about his desire to leave Denver. He and Clarice became inseparable, spending the afternoons together and eating supper at the cafe each day before she went to work. She had Sundays off and they usually had picnics and fun in the woods on those days, often fueled by liquor. It turned out that Clarice had the same liking for whiskey as Hank himself and the pair frequently shared a bottle, becoming insensible and upsetting any of the townsfolk they ran into on the way back to the boarding house afterwards. Later when the house was in darkness, one of them would sneak into the other's room and smother giggles and groans as best they could to avoid upsetting Mrs Brady.

However, Mrs Brady wasn't a fool or hard of hearing and quickly became irritated by the arrangement. It hadn't taken her long to cotton onto what Hank's girl did for a living either and she tolerated her only because Hank had been such a reliable guest for so long, although she made it clear to Hank she considered Clarice a poor influence and only refrained from evicting her because of him.

Clarice's occupation still annoyed Hank, but he swallowed his feelings about it. There was no point discussing it with Clarice any more; the one other time he had said anything had created an enormous row between them with Clarice threatening to end their relationship and move into the saloon. Hank was head over heels with her by then and would have done just about anything to hold onto her, except tell her how he felt about her. She hadn't been particularly forthcoming about her own feelings except to say she liked him and he feared he would make a fool of himself if he said too much. She didn't like to look too far ahead or make plans and the few times she had talked about her past indicated she rarely stayed in the same place for more than a few months and never tied herself to anything or anyone, so he guessed she must be pretty fond of him to still be with him getting on for a year later. However, they were still in Denver and the more he thought about it, the more he began to want to get away. He had been saving a lot of his poker winnings during that time and despite the small scale games, had amassed enough to make the move. If only he could convince Clarice to go with him. It turned out that an innocent conversation about Clarice's work led to just that.

"How long ya been doin' it?" he asked her during one of their picnics. She was complaining that at twenty-four most of the other girls were much younger and making her feel old. The question prompted her to tell him a couple of things that she never had before, such as her roots.

"Since I was fifteen. My ma was a whore too," Clarice said. "Never knew my pa; he was one of her customers. She always said I was an accident and I cost her almost a year's good money." She smiled wrily. "She resented me till the day she died. I was fourteen then and I guess I took over from her. Didn't know how to do anythin' else. Guess ya don't know what it's like to have yer ma hate ya."

"My ma died when I was born," Hank said shortly. He didn't add that he knew what it was like to have a father hate you. He had never told Clarice anything about his family and didn't plan to start now; it was easier to forget about them, except for Nana who he still wrote to regularly.

"Sorry," Clarice said.

Hank shrugged. "I know ya grew up in Chicago. What then?"

"I moved from one place to another. I forget the names of them all. I ain't much good as an employee. Kept havin' to run." She smiled now. "My last boss was real mean. I was there a year; woulda been much less, but he wouldn't let me outta my contract. In the end I stole his Saturday night takin's to get a ticket on the stagecoach out."

"Ya had a contract?" Hank said in surprise.

"Oh, yeah, most guys who keep whores make 'em sign somethin', otherwise they'd always be uppin' and leavin' when they had enough. I got lucky here; Red ain't made me sign nothin'." She smirked. "I get away with pleasin' myself pretty much. Guess I could leave too, whenever I wanted."

"Ya get paid half of what he takes, right?" Hank mused.

"Yeah. Plus tips. How else d'ya think I can buy all these fine frocks?" She stroked her hand down the bodice of her latest acquisition - a gown of golden yellow with trimmings of a rusty red colour. "What're ya thinkin', Hank? Plannin' on settin' up yer own place?" she asked then.

He shrugged. "I hadn't really thought about it. Maybe. I still wanna leave Denver."

"Well, I don't care where I live," Clarice said. "Ya know, if we set up together, like partners, I wouldn't have to entertain nobody but you. I'd be too busy keepin' the other girls in line. I know that'd please ya." She leaned over and brushed her lips against the corner of his mouth, then got to her feet. "We oughta get back to town, it looks like it's gonna rain."

"Sure." Hank got up, grabbed the picnic basket and they set off. He was fairly silent on the walk back, thinking about what Clarice had said. She was willing to leave Denver with him. If he set up his own saloon and found some girls to keep the customers happy, he'd have Clarice all to himself. He grinned now. He knew he had enough money to make the move. Even with the small poker games he'd had to stick to since Lillian, he hadn't really spent all that much and it was still all stashed between his mattress and the base of the bed. All he needed to do was find somewhere for them to go. Preferably somewhere without a saloon type establishment, where the locals would welcome them with open arms. Somewhere like the frontier.

However, he had time to do nothing more than think about it before all his hopes were threatened by something that happened a few weeks before, which he could barely remember.

"Hank!" Clarice banged loudly on his bedroom door and he got up quickly. She sounded mad as hell. He pulled the door open, clad in only his underwear.

"What's wrong?" he asked, dragging a hand through his hair and yawning.

"I wanna talk to ya," she said through her teeth, eyes flashing.

"Come in, then." He stood back to let her pass, but she stayed where she was.

"Not here, I don't want Mrs Brady hearin' our business."

"Fine, I'll get dressed." Hank turned away and grabbed a pair of pants. He had no idea what was the matter with her. She'd been in a lousy mood for weeks, rowing with him over nothing or just avoiding him altogether. Her constant bad temper had begun to irritate him and now that she had woken him up after only four hours sleep, he was spoiling for a fight. He fastened his shirt quickly, shoved his feet into his boots and grabbed his coat. "Let's go." He stepped out of the room and closed the door.

They walked in silence towards the cafe, around its perimeter and away from the last building until they were out of earshot.

"What d'ya want, Clarice?" he began.

"Ya mean you ain't noticed anythin' different?"

Hank sighed heavily. She often didn't come out and say what she meant, but tried to make you guess. Never having had a relationship before, he always wondered if other women were like that. Lillian hadn't been, but then they hadn't been together either. Not like this.

"I noticed the lousy mood you've been in lately," he said now. "But I ain't a mind reader."

"I'm pregnant," she said.

"_What?" _Out of all the things Clarice could have said to him, that was the last thing he expected. "How?" he added stupidly.

"_How_?" she echoed. "Did no one ever teach ya 'bout the birds and the bees?"

"I _meant_ how'd it happen when we always use rubbers?" Hank snapped, his mind whirling. Pregnant? He was going to be a father? He'd probably be a lousy father; just like his own. He realised she was speaking when she shrieked at him suddenly.

"Are ya even listenin' to me?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"About five or six weeks ago, we were in the woods with a coupla bottles of whiskey. Don't ya remember?"

"We were out of our minds drunk," Hank frowned.

"Yeah, I was. You, apparently were still capable of somethin'."

"Ya weren't complainin' at the time," remembered Hank.

"I didn't know what I was doin'! This is all your fault!" raged Clarice. "What the hell am I gonna do with a kid?"

"Folks have kids all the time, it ain't the end of the world," said Hank.

"Isn't it? I never wanted a kid. What have I got to offer a child? If it's a girl it'd most likely end up a whore and a boy..."

"It doesn't have to be like that," Hank interrupted. "I'll look after ya. Ya know I will. And the kid too."

"Ya weren't lookin' after me too well when this happened, were ya?" she retorted. "So, ya'll look after me? What're ya gonna do, Hank? Get a regular job and marry me and be a good husband and pa? D'ya really think that's what I want? Is it what you want?"

"I don't know what ya want, ya never tell me. I wasn't expectin' this, but I ain't runnin' away from it. What's so bad about us bein' together and havin' a kid, huh? Unless ya can't stand me, in which case, why're ya still with me? Why haven't ya run off with one of yer customers?"

Clarice opened her mouth and then shut it again. She turned away and walked a few paces, then came back. "I'm sorry, Hank," she said. "I'm with ya 'cause I love ya. I guess I just ain't too good at sayin' it. Not much better at showin' it either."

"I guess that makes two of us," he said quietly. "I've always loved ya. Somehow I just didn't think it was what ya wanted to hear."

"Maybe now I do." She closed the gap between them and leaned against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "What're we gonna do? I'll lose my job and I don't know the first thing about kids."

"Nor do I," said Hank. "I guess we'll learn. As for yer job, it ain't that important. I got money. We'll get outta Denver and set up our own place, like ya said."

"Alright," Clarice agreed after only a brief hesitation. "Ya better start lookin' for a place to go. And find a coupla girls to take along. If we go to some small place that ain't got much in the way of entertainment, there probably ain't gonna be much talent there either."

Hank nodded. "If we're takin' other girls along, I'm gonna need more money. There's a big game on in the bar next month; first serious one they've put on. That should do it."

Clarice drew back and looked up at him. "If ya win," she winked.

"I always win. Don't worry about that."

Hank spent the rest of the day with her until she left him to go to the saloon and tell Red she was quitting. Then he went into the bar, ordered a large whiskey and sat thinking. He still found it hard to believe he was going to be a father. By the time the kid was born he would be just on twenty. He only hoped he could be a better father to it than Jorgen had been to him. He was going to make a damned good effort at least. He grinned to himself now as he thought about the future. For the first time it felt like he and Clarice really had one.


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Hank decided not to waste the month leading up to the poker game, but began looking at maps to find a possible location to move to. There was a town called Manitou some sixty miles to the south and a few other small towns close by which seemed to be a likely destination. He bought a horse in readiness for making a trip there to investigate and then obtained a bed roll, water canteen and saddle bags from the general store and a good supply of ammunition for his gun. He decided to leave the next Thursday, camp one night halfway and complete the journey on Friday, spend the weekend looking around Manitou and perhaps the other towns, Soda Springs and Colorado Springs, and then return early the next week.

Hank hadn't yet thought about looking for a couple of girls to employ and decided to leave that until he had somewhere for them to go to. However, it turned out that one came across his path accidentally.

He headed back into town to the general store, realising he had run out of cigars and forgotten to buy some on his previous visit there. As he approached the store, he noticed a young girl appear around the corner of the building, almost tiptoeing and keeping close to the wall. He paused and watched curiously. She had long tangled brown hair and wore a grey dress that looked as if she'd lived and slept in it for the past year. She had heavy black boots on her feet which looked several sizes too big. Her face was grubby and pale under the dirt and she was far too thin. She was obviously one of the beggars who frequently came into the town hoping someone would take pity on them and hand out a few coins.

Hank shrugged and continued into the store, ignoring the girl. He bought half a dozen cigars and shoved them into his vest pocket, then went out onto the porch. He immediately collided with the young waif where she stood gathering apples from a basket there, holding them in her skirt. She let go the edge of her skirt with a gasp and stumbled backwards, letting the apples fall to the ground. Hank automatically grasped her arm to steady her and looked down into her startled green eyes.

"Hey!" The storekeeper charged out of the door. "I've told you before, you little thief! Stay away from here! Next time I catch you stealing from me, I'll have you thrown in jail, you hear me?" He bent and began to rescue the apples from the porch.

Meanwhile the girl jerked her arm free of Hank's grasp and fled. Hank turned back to the storekeeper.

"Ya got somethin' to wrap them apples in?" he asked. "I'll take 'em."

The storekeeper raised his eyebrows, but said nothing as he went back into the store, wrapped the six apples in paper and returned to Hank with the package. Hank passed him a coin and took them, then set off in pursuit of the girl. During that brief moment she had been close to him he had seen beauty under the dirt and dust. She was a little on the skinny side, but with a few good meals, a decent dress and a touch of makeup to hide the pallor of her skin, she'd be an ideal candidate for his future saloon.

He found her ten minutes later, hiding in a doorway along the next street. She was crouching on the step, her arms wrapped around her knees.

"Hey."

She looked up at Hank's voice, eyes wide with surprise.

"Ya forgot these." He put the package of apples into her hands and now her mouth fell open.

"Ya didn't have to do that," she said.

"Maybe I wanted to." He took hold of her arm again and drew her to her feet. "What's yer name?"

"Myra."

"I'm Hank."

"Well, thank you, Hank; for the apples." She had to tilt her head back quite a way to look at his face and he guessed she couldn't be much more than five-three or four.

"Yer welcome. But I can do better than that, if ya want."

"What d'ya mean?" Myra asked.

"Ya wanna get some supper with me later?"

"Umm…well….." She looked him up and down, taking in his expensive clothes. "I ain't got much else to wear." She dropped her eyes and blushed.

"Don't matter. There's a café on the edge of town; they ain't too particular about what the customers wear so long as they eat plenty."

"Oh! Well, then, thanks, I'd like that," Myra said at once. She raised her head again and smiled, flashing surprisingly white and even teeth.

"Meet me at six," Hank told her. "Ya know the café I mentioned?"

"Sure," she nodded. "I'll be there."

Hank shot her a bright smile and set off back to the boarding house. He intended to tell Clarice about Myra, but when he went up to her room and knocked she told him to go away.

"I'm sick," she groaned from the other side of the door.

"Ya want me to get a doctor?" he called anxiously.

"No! It's 'cause I'm pregnant!" she snapped.

"Ya want Mrs Brady?" Hank persisted.

"_No!_" exclaimed Clarice. "The woman hates me."

"Anythin' I can get ya?"

"Hank, leave me alone," Clarice replied and could then be heard vomiting.

"Hell," muttered Hank and retreated to his own room. She was bad tempered most of the time these days, sick or not. He couldn't wait for them to get out of Denver – maybe a new town and proper place to live would improve her disposition.

Hank spent the rest of the afternoon in his room, then freshened up and set off to the café to meet Myra. Clarice still hadn't emerged from her room and all was silent so he guessed she must be sleeping.

When he arrived at the café, Myra was already waiting by the fence, fidgeting and looking very nervous. Her hair was shining and brushed smooth, her face pink from a scrubbing and she wore a clean but faded red dress a couple of sizes too big for her. Hank smiled as he walked towards her.

"Here already?" he said.

"I didn't wanna keep ya waitin'," Myra said, blushing prettily.

Hank grinned. "Ya hungry?"

"Starvin'," admitted Myra.

"Let's eat, then." He led her into the café and pulled a chair out for her at a small wooden table by the fence. She looked surprised as she sat down. He seated himself opposite and leaned on the table as the woman running the café walked over.

"What can I get ya?" she asked. "Just coffee or some food?"

"Both, thanks," said Hank.

"Well, it's meatloaf today and blueberry pie for dessert."

Myra's eyes lit up and Hank smiled. "That sounds good, we'll have both," he said. The woman nodded and returned a moment later with two cups of coffee, then went off again to fetch the food.

"I dunno how to thank ya for this," Myra said softly. "Never had no one wanna help me before."

"First time for everythin'," Hank said.

"Ya don't sound like ya look," she blurted out then and reddened.

"Yeah, well, my family are a stuck up bunch; got away soon as I could. What about you? No kin?"

"Just my sister. Our ma and pa died last year of a fever," Myra told him. "They was rentin' a house so after they was gone, me and Suzannah had to leave."

"What've ya been doin' since?" asked Hank.

"Stealin'," Myra admitted, hanging her head.

"Couldn't ya get a job?"

"Ain't nothin' for someone like me. Ain't had no schoolin'." She shrugged. "Besides, Suzannah's only ten, I couldn't leave her all day."

"Where is she now?"

"Waitin' for me down by the creek. We got a little shack there we sleep in."

"How old are ya?" asked Hank.

"Seventeen."

"I could help ya," Hank said now, sipping his coffee. "I'm lookin' for a coupla girls to work for me. I'm gonna be leavin' town soon. I'm gonna set up a saloon about sixty, seventy miles from here. Need some nice-lookin' girls to keep the customers happy."

"Nice-lookin'? That ain't me," sighed Myra, her face falling again.

Hank reached across the table and touched her hand. "You're beautiful," he said softly. She looked up in surprise. He was smiling at her like she was the most amazing girl he'd ever met and she was immediately lost.

"Ya really want me to work for ya?" she whispered.

"Yeah. We'll earn good money. Ya'll have a place to live, plenty of food, nice things to wear."

"What about Suzannah?" she asked.

"She can come with us and we'll find somewhere for her to live. There's bound to be a family there who'll take in a young girl. Maybe send her to school too. Ya won't have to worry about her then and ya'll get Sundays off work so ya can see her."

"Really? Ya'd do all that for me? Ya hardly know me," Myra said in wonder.

"I want to, though. Knew it right off when I nearly knocked ya down outside the store." Hank let go of her hand now, but carried on smiling dazzlingly at her as their food arrived.

They didn't talk much during the meal, Myra doing her best to eat politely but clearly desperate to shovel the food into her mouth as fast as possible. Afterwards Hank ordered more coffee.

"You ain't asked exactly what the work is gonna be," he pointed out.

"I don't really care," said Myra. "I wanna be able to look after Suzannah properly and this is the only chance I got."

"Well, like I said, ya'll have to keep the saloon customers happy," Hank said. "Ya been with a man before?"

Myra blushed furiously and glanced from left to right, worried other diners may be listening in.

"No," she whispered, looking down into her coffee mug.

"Well, don't worry about that right now," Hank told her. "Ya'll be alright. It ain't gonna be for a little while anyhow. I gotta go find somewhere for us to move to."

Myra looked up again. "How long?" she asked.

"Few weeks. Look, I'll give ya some money to keep you and yer sister goin' until then," he told her. "Ya won't have to worry about food or nothin'. I gotta sort out a contract too."

"Contract?"

"Yeah, for the job. Saloon girls all have 'em. Just means you ain't gotta worry about losin' the job, least not before it runs out," Hank said, feeling a little guilty for tricking her in such a way. She was so innocent and trusting, but he couldn't help thinking about what Clarice had said. The last thing he wanted to do was get all set up and then have the girls run out on him.

"How long would it be for?" asked Myra.

"Well, ya said yer sister's ten, so yer gonna have to look after her for a few years yet," Hank reasoned. "We could say five years. Then both of ya'll have a proper roof over yer heads and ya won't have to be stealin' no more."

"Five years?" Myra frowned and chewed her lip for a long moment. Hank wondered what she was thinking – was she willing to spend five years entertaining to get herself and her sister off the streets?

"Alright." Myra nodded. "I'll do it. I ain't got nothin' to lose."

Hank smiled at her again, then looked up as the café owner came over to collect the money for the meal. He gave her a whole dollar and asked her to pack up some extra food for Myra's sister, then when she turned away reached across the table and grasped Myra's hand, pressing ten dollars into it.

"Here, this'll keep ya for a while."

"It's too much," protested Myra. "I don't wanna owe ya."

"Yer workin' for me now," Hank reminded her. "Call it an advance. Make sure you and Suzannah get plenty to eat. Ya might be able to get somethin' to wear out of it too."

"Thank you," Myra said, smiling now. "So what happens now?"

"Have supper with me again tomorrow; I'll bring a contract with me," Hank said. "I'm goin' off lookin' for a place to move on Thursday so after tomorrow ya won't see me for a few days. When I get back we'll catch up and make plans. Ya can meet Clarice too, maybe tomorrow."

"Who's Clarice?"

"My…uh…partner," Hank said.

"She gonna work in the saloon too?" asked Myra.

"Yeah."

"Well, maybe she'll give me some tips, then," Myra said shyly, getting up as Hank pulled her chair out for her. "Thank you for the supper."

"Yer welcome. See ya tomorrow."

He watched her go, carrying the package of food supplied by the café owner for her sister. He wondered what Clarice would think of Myra and hoped they would get along. Just lately it seemed that Clarice didn't like anyone, least of all Hank himself, despite the fact that only a short while ago she had said she loved him. Still, it must be hell being sick all the time, he reasoned. She'd be better in a few weeks and by then they'd have a new home.


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Much to Hank's surprise, Clarice was in the boarding house kitchen when he returned, eating a bowl of Mrs Brady's soup and chatting to the older woman. It seemed Clarice had advised she and Hank were planning to leave Denver within a few weeks and Mrs Brady immediately softened towards the girl in the knowledge that she didn't have to put up with her for much longer.

Clarice remained in a better temper for a while and was even pleasant to Myra when Hank took her with him the next day to meet the young girl at the café. Hank had drawn up a suitable contract of employment stating that Myra would work for him for five years, helped with the wording by Clarice. Myra signed it with a cross since she couldn't write her own name. The three ate supper together and then Hank and Clarice returned to the boarding house.

"She's a sweet girl," Clarice said. "How old is she?"

"Seventeen."

"Did she tell ya she's a virgin?" she asked then.

"Yeah."

"Well, let me give ya some advice. Ya'll get a good price for her the first time, but after that ya better make sure she learns fast or ya'll get complaints."

"What're ya sayin'?" frowned Hank.

Clarice shrugged. "Just that ya better get somebody to show her the ropes."

"I thought you'd give her some tips."

"Ain't my job, you're gonna be the boss."

"Well, what're ya gonna be doin' then? Loungin' about like the Queen of Sheba?" demanded Hank.

"No, I'm gonna be raisin' your kid!" Clarice snapped and stalked off ahead towards the boarding house.

"Damn you," muttered Hank under his breath. Her good humour hadn't lasted long. He found that he couldn't wait to set off on his trip looking for their future home. Maybe a few days away from her would do them good.

Soon enough it was Thursday and Hank heaved a sigh of relief as he loaded up the horse with the things he needed and got ready to set off. Clarice had barely spoken to him in the last few days and he hadn't felt like making much effort to appease her. However, as he strapped his bedroll to the back of the horse's saddle she appeared, looking pale and tired.

"Hank, I'm sorry I'm such lousy company," she said. "I guess I still ain't got my head around bein' pregnant and I'm sick as a dog most days."

"Things'll be better when we get outta Denver." Hank turned away from the horse and looked down at her.

"Yeah, I guess so. I'm gonna miss ya while yer gone." She stepped closer and slid her arms around him. "I do love ya; I'm just fed up of feelin' like hell."

"Love you too." Hank gave her a hug and kissed the top of her head. "I'll see you in a few days." He drew away after a minute and swung into the horse's saddle and Clarice stood back, watching as he rode away.

Hank arrived in Manitou early on Friday evening. Exhausted from the journey and a poor night's sleep under a tree along the way, he decided to have dinner and spend the night in the hotel there, then look around the next day. The next morning he questioned a couple of people over breakfast about the facilities in the town and discovered that it was a busy and thriving place. He spent a good part of the day wandering about and discovered a large saloon there, with at least half a dozen girls serving drinks and flirting with the customers. Maybe not such a good idea to set up in competition – he wanted to make money, not fight with the locals.

He stayed one more night and set off again as the sun rose on Saturday, deciding to head for Colorado Springs. One of the hotel staff indicated it was just ten miles away and at present was little more than a struggling village. There was nothing to keep the passing trade; they all moved right onto Manitou.

When Hank rode into the little settlement, it seemed like it was deserted. Not a soul was in sight, but as he approached the long building which said 'Bray's Mercantile' on the front, a few faces began to appear, staring curiously at the newcomer. A middle-aged couple stepped out of the large store and watched as Hank rode up and he could see a young man of around his own age leaning against the railing outside a barber's shop. A few others watched from outside another small building which could have been some kind of bar.

Hank halted in front of the couple and jumped to the ground.

"'Mornin'," he said, removing his hat and nodding at the lady. She smiled at once.

"'Mornin'," the man replied. "What we can we do for ya?"

"I was wonderin' if there's a place to stay 'round here," Hank said.

"Nah, yer outta luck. Ain't no hotel or boarding house here. I got plenty of supplies though, if yer runnin' short. Name's Loren Bray. This is my wife, Maude."

"Nice to meet ya." Hank reached out and shook the older man's hand. "Hank Lawson. Ya stock cigars?"

"Why, sure! Come on inside!" exclaimed Loren at once, obviously keen to make a sale. Hank humoured him and bought cigars, apples and a bag of oats for his horse, meanwhile asking more questions.

Loren informed him that plenty of people passed through – cattle drovers, travellers, people looking for a new home, but few of them stopped when they saw how lacking in facilities Colorado Springs was. The town held less than a hundred families and didn't show much sign of growing. Hank refrained from asking whether there was a saloon, not wanting to offend Mrs Bray. He grinned wrily to himself, thinking that he had obviously retained some manners from his upbringing. He paid for the items, loaded them onto the horse and then wandered across the street towards the barber's shop where the young guy in his fancy shirt and vest, a pocket watch tucked in the vest pocket, was still staring his way and pretending not to.

"Hey," said Hank. "This your shop?"

"Yeah. Passin' through?"

"Maybe." Hank tied his horse to the railing and stepped up onto the porch. "Hank Lawson." He offered his hand and the barber shook it slowly.

"Jake Slicker. Where ya from?"

"Denver."

"Long way from home," Jake commented.

"Yeah. Ya got a saloon here?" asked Hank.

"If ya can call it that. Lookin' for a woman?" Jake grinned now.

"Nah. Got my own." Hank glanced over at the rough-looking little building which Jake had indicated; the one he had thought might be a bar. "Who's the owner?"

"Guy named Murphy. Why you interested?"

"Lookin' for a place to set up. Ya wanna go get a whiskey on me? I could use some information."

"Sure!" Jake flipped the sign on his door over to show 'closed' and locked the door. "Let's go."

Hank left his horse outside the barbers and the pair walked to the saloon, watched suspiciously by Loren Bray as they passed. Hank ordered a couple of large whiskies and paid while Jake found a table in one corner. Hank eyed the room as he waited for the drinks; small, cramped, scruffy, a wide bar and perhaps seven or eight tables, a door leading through to a narrow corridor. Two rather past their prime girls flirted half-heartedly with some of the customers and the barkeep himself was red-faced and bleary eyed, clearly drinking most of his profits.

"Ya get much trade passin' through?" asked Hank, sitting down opposite Jake and passing him one of the drinks. He sipped his own and grimaced as he discovered it was watered down to the point of weakness.

"Some. Ain't much here to keep 'em interested. Guess ya saw the mercantile. We got a blacksmith and livery and a telegraph office aside from this place. Ain't much else."

It was the same story as the one he'd got from Loren. Hank nodded thoughtfully.

"Folks'd probably stick around if there was some decent entertainment. Not to mention decent liquor," he said.

Jake grinned. "Thinkin' of providin' some?"

"Might do. Looks like there's plenty of room to expand this place. My girls are much younger and prettier too."

"How many ya got?" asked Jake eagerly.

"Two so far," he said although he intended there to be two not including Clarice by the time they moved.

"I'm guessin' old man Murphy'd sell out without much persuasion," said Jake. He eyed Hank's expensive-looking coat and silk necktie. "Ya look like ya got money."

"Yeah, but I ain't plannin' on spendin' too much of it. Murphy play poker?"

"Sure. Beats most folks too."

Hank smirked. "He might have trouble with me."

"He don't like to get beat."

"He ain't gonna like me then. Reckon I can get him to wager this place?"

"Most likely. Might shoot ya though, if ya win."

Hank raised one eyebrow and pulled his coat aside to show Jake the gun strapped to his hip.

"You a good shot?" the barber said under his breath.

"Better than most."

Jake grinned. "So when ya gonna challenge him to a game? Sounds like we could use someone like you in this town."

"No time like the present. Hey! Murphy, is it? We'll have some more whiskies over here, thanks," Hank called out.

"Sure," grunted the old man and rounded the bar, a bottle of watered down liquor in his hand. He poured generous measures for both men.

"Passin' through?" he asked Hank.

"Maybe. Might think of stickin' around. Ya play poker?"

"Fancy tryin' yer luck, do ya?" Murphy grinned toothlessly and pulled a pack of cards out of his pocket. "What about you, Jake?"

"Nah, I'll sit this one out," said Jake.

"Scared ya'll lose?" Hank teased, winking.

"Ain't got much to spare right now."

"Yeah, ya drank every penny ya had Friday," Murphy said.

Jake scowled, but didn't respond to this. Hank glanced at him sceptically. A man who liked his liquor a little too much, maybe?

"So, where ya from?" Murphy asked Hank, beginning to shuffle the cards.

"Denver."

"Ya don't talk like a city fella," the old man mused. "What d'ya want in a dead-end little town like this?"

"New opportunities." Hank pulled a cigar out and lit it, then after a moment's hesitation offered cigars to his two companions. Jake took one, but Murphy declined.

Jake leaned back in his chair now, smoking and sipping his whiskey as he watched the poker game. It started with low stakes, but grew rapidly, drawing the remainder of the bar's customers to cluster around, interested in the outcome. Hank was winning and Murphy's toothless grin had quickly been replaced by a scowl. Most of the men in the bar watched Hank curiously, the out-of-towner's face relaxed and unreadable as he glanced at the cards hidden against the front of his coat. Another twenty minutes passed and Murphy was down to his last few bills, his face now red and angry as he watched the last month's takings from the bar dwindle. He threw his final ten dollars into the pile. Hank matched it and added another twenty.

"I'm done," Murphy muttered.

"What about this place?" Hank asked slowly.

"What about it?"

"Wanna wager it or are ya gonna quit and let me take all yer money?" He grinned and raised his eyebrows.

Murphy's eyes narrowed and he stared back at Hank for a long moment, then looked down at his cards once again.

"It's worth more than the cash on the table," he said. "What ya got to cover it if ya lose?"

"Another hundred and my horse," said Hank.

"I'd keep the horse, fella," a voice came from the group of men watching. "This shack's about ready to fall down."

A number of men chuckled and then fell silent quickly as Murphy looked up and glared at them.

"Alright. The bar," he said to Hank. "Let's see yer cards."

Hank dropped the remains of his cigar into his whiskey glass, lowered one hand to his lap just in case he needed to go for his gun and then laid the cards on the table; three Kings and two tens. Murphy tossed his cards down, scowling at Hank; he had a flush, meaning Hank won.

"Ya cheated," Murphy said.

"I ain't no cheat," Hank growled. Not since Lillian had died for it.

Murphy glanced down briefly, pulling his gun free of its holster, but when he raised his head Hank's gun was already aimed at him, just a fraction above the table.

"Don't even think about," Hank said. "I won fair and square and if yer finger gets even a quarter inch closer to that trigger, I'll blow it off."

No one else spoke and the watching men backed away a few feet as if expecting trouble. Jake stayed where he was, but his eyes flicked nervously from Hank to Murphy and back again.

"Damn you," Murphy muttered, pushing his chair back and hauling himself to his feet. Hank merely grinned and sat watching him.

"Alright." The old man reholstered his gun with a sigh. "Ya gonna give me some time to find a place to go?"

"Ya got a week or two," Hank said. "I gotta get back to Denver and fetch my girls."

"Got two of 'em here," Murphy pointed out.

"Take 'em with ya." Hank put his own gun away, gathered up the money on the table and got to his feet. "They look pretty dried up."

"Yeah, like you, Murphy," one of the customers called out, suddenly bold now that the newcomer was in charge.

"Go to hell," muttered the old saloon owner and headed back behind the bar.

"Guess I'll be goin'," said Hank, looking around at the group of men watching. "You fellas'll soon have a decent place to get a drink and some entertainment."

"Welcome to Colorado Springs," one said and the others nodded approvingly.

"Name's Hank Lawson," said Hank and a couple of the men came forward to shake hands and introduce themselves. Hank exchanged a few words with them and then headed for the door, followed quickly by Jake.

"Thought he was gonna shoot ya," the barber said.

"He wouldn't've got the chance." Hank untied his horse and swung up into the saddle. "Keep an eye on my bar for me. Be seein' ya."

Jake watched as he turned the horse and galloped away into the distance.


	18. Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Hank arrived back in Denver on Tuesday evening. Mrs Brady looked up as he walked into the kitchen, her face breaking into a smile.

"Why, Hank, yer back!" she exclaimed. "Did ya have a good trip?"

"Yeah, I found a little town sixty-somethin' miles from here. Got me a saloon there," he said. "We'll be leavin' week after next."

"Well, I'll miss ya," she told him. "Not to mention the regular income."

"Where's Clarice?" Hank asked her.

"Went out a couple hours back," Mrs Brady said. "Said she was goin' to work."

Hank's smile vanished. What the hell was she thinking? Didn't she quit right after she told him she was pregnant? He went out again, climbed back onto his horse and urged the exhausted animal across town, his temper mounting until by the time he reached Red's saloon, he was ready to punch someone.

He threw himself off the horse, shoved open the swing doors and marched inside. The place hadn't changed a bit. Red was behind the bar, leaning on the counter talking to a customer. Jenny was still there, handing out drinks to a bunch of men sitting around the poker table. Then he saw Clarice, sitting on some man's lap, her arm around his neck, giggling and sipping a glass of whiskey.

"Hey!" Red rounded the counter and appeared in front of Hank. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

"I've come for my girl," Hank grunted and turned away. Clarice looked up as he approached. He said nothing to her, but grasped her by the arm and jerked her to her feet.

"Take yer hands off her!" Red exclaimed. "You ain't welcome here and I ain't havin' ya manhandling the merchandise!"

Hank let go of Clarice and turned to face him, his fists clenched. "She's mine!" he snarled. "And she's pregnant. I'm guessin' that'd be off-puttin' to most customers."

"Pregnant?" echoed Red.

"How dare you!" Clarice cried now. "That ain't no one else's business!"

"No, it ain't; it's yours and mine." Hank grasped her by the wrist again and began to head towards the door. "She quit!" he yelled over his shoulder to Red, yanking Clarice outside into the street.

"Let go of me!" she spat. "Ya got no right treatin' me like that in front of everybody!"

"I got every right. Yer havin' my kid. I've been gone less than a week; what the hell're ya thinkin'? Ya could be puttin' it in danger! What if one of the fellas got rough?"

"Ya mean like you?" Clarice retorted, jerking her wrist free of his hand. "What was I supposed to do; just sit around in my room waitin' for ya? I was bored."

"Bored? So ya go back to whorin' for somethin' to do?"

"I never stopped," Clarice said.

"But ya went to see Red and quit," Hank reminded her.

"No, I didn't. I just told him I was sick and I'd need more days off for a while."

Furious, Hank grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, making her teeth rattle.

"Keep goin', maybe it'll cure me of pregnancy!" she hissed.

Hank let go immediately and took a step back, cursing himself. "Get on the horse," he said. "We're goin' home."

"I'll walk," Clarice said sourly and turned away.

Hank sighed heavily and watched her flounce off up the street. He wondered how many men she'd entertained while he'd been away and it made him sick. It had been bad enough just putting up with her job in the beginning, but now she was pregnant it horrified him. He began to wonder what kind of a life they were going to have in Colorado Springs and doubted it was likely to improve.

"Hey, Mister!"

He turned around at the sound of another female voice and found himself staring at a beautiful young girl of around his own age. She had straight dark brown hair hanging to her waist and chocolate brown eyes, her voluptuous figure filling out a very tight pink dress, her breasts almost spilling out of the bodice. Hank swallowed his rage temporarily.

"Yeah?"

"D'ya know if they're hirin' in there?" she asked, pointing to the saloon. "I got into town yesterday; need a job."

"Entertainin', right?"

"How'd ya guess?" She pouted and giggled. "So are they hirin'?"

"They ain't, but I am," Hank said. "If ya don't mind movin' on again. I'm leavin' Denver soon. Got a place waitin' for me south of here."

"Don't much care where I go so long as I'm earnin'," the girl said.

"Got much experience?" Hank asked.

"Four years."

"How old are ya?"

"Twenty."

He nodded. "What's yer name?"

"Lissy."

"Well, Lissy, yer hired," Hank said. "Meet me tomorrow at the café across town, say noon. I'll need to get ya to sign a contract."

"Sure."

"Ya got somewhere to stay for a few days?"

"Yeah, I'll be alright. I got a few bucks."

Hank nodded. "See ya tomorrow."

He mounted the horse again and rode slowly back to the boarding house, expecting another confrontation with Clarice. He was still furious and for a brief moment had been tempted to stay out and let Lissy cheer him up, but decided against it. Halfway back, he caught up with Clarice and jumped to the ground to walk with her. She ignored him for a minute or two and he said nothing until she eventually turned her head to look at him.

"Sorry," she said grudgingly. Another moment of silence. "I seem to be sayin' that a lot lately," she added.

"It's alright sayin' it, but d'ya mean it?" Hank replied.

"Yes, I mean it. Yer right, I could've harmed the baby. I was missin' ya. My head gets stupid sometimes; I know I'm horrible to live with and I wouldn't've blamed ya if ya hadn't come back."

"Ya thought I wouldn't?"

"I dunno what I thought. I just got miserable. Ya gonna tell me about yer trip?"

"Sure." Hank told her about Colorado Springs and the scruffy little saloon he'd won in a poker game from the grouchy old barkeep. Then he told her about Lissy too.

"Lissy….what's she look like?" asked Clarice suddenly.

"Straight brown hair, brown eyes, all curvy," Hank said with a grin. "Said she's twenty."

"I know her!" Clarice exclaimed. "At least I think it could be her. She worked in a saloon with me a coupla years back. Got on like a house on fire 'til I did my usual thing and upset the saloon keeper, then sneaked off at dawn one day. I always wondered what happened to her."

"She was outside Red's lookin' for work," Hank told her. "Just arrived in Denver yesterday."

Their fight forgotten once again, the pair continued to chat about their plans with growing excitement, only wishing the next week would pass more quickly so they could leave.

A couple of days later Hank bought a wagon and another horse, realising it was going to be the only way to transport four girls to Colorado Springs without throwing away a lot of money on stagecoach tickets.

Lissy did turn out to be Clarice's old friend and he heaved a sigh of relief as the two girls instantly became as thick as thieves and Clarice's unpredictable temper lessened enormously. For those last few days leading up to the poker game at the bar, Lissy moved into Clarice's room at the boarding house and looked after her when she was sick.

Hank went looking for Myra the day before the game, remembering she said she and her sister were staying in a shack by the creek. He found the pair of them heading towards town. Suzannah looked very like Myra, only even tinier and with long straggling pigtails.

"Hey, Myra." Hank stopped and waited for them to reach him.

"Hank! This is my sister, Suzannah."

The younger girl shrank back and clutched Myra's hand shyly. Hank grinned.

"We'll be leavin' in a coupla days," he said.

"Ya found a place to go?"

"Yeah, little town called Colorado Springs. It's about two days' ride. Got a saloon waitin' for me there; if ya can call it that. Place looks like it needs a lotta work, but at least we'll have a roof over our heads." He stopped for a moment. "You two wanna get some lunch with me?"

"Thanks, that'd be nice," said Myra.

Hank took them to the café and bought them stew and apple pie. Suzannah quickly got over her shyness and chattered like any ten-year-old girl. Myra had been telling her they were moving to a new home and she was excited at the prospect of an adventure. After the meal, the young girl spotted one of her friends at another table and excused herself.

"How're we gettin' to Colorado Springs?" Myra asked then. "Ya mentioned ridin'?"

Hank grinned. "Can ya ride?"

"Not very well and Suzannah's never been on a horse."

"Don't worry, I got a wagon," Hank told her. "There's gonna be five of us." He went on to tell her about Lissy.

"So there's three girls altogether?" asked Myra. "Includin' Clarice?"

"Yeah, well she ain't actually gonna be workin'," Hank admitted. "Unless she sticks behind the bar."

"Why not?" Myra looked up at him and then smiled suddenly. "Are you and her together?"

"Yeah, I guess ya could say that."

"Ya don't sound too happy about it."

"Thing is, she's pregnant," Hank blurted out. "It ain't doin' much for her personality. We rub each other up the wrong way all the time. Both of us got nasty tempers. She calmed down a bit since Lissy turned up, though. Turns out they knew each other before." Hank pulled a cigar out and lit it. "Hell knows why I'm tellin' ya this," he muttered, grimacing.

Myra smiled again. "Ya can talk to me if ya want," she said. "I ain't a gossip. Ain't much good with advice neither, but I can listen."

Hank stared at her thoughtfully. He barely knew her, but it was clear she was the complete opposite of Clarice. He couldn't imagine Clarice offering a friendly ear if her life depended on it.

"Thanks," he said now. "I better go, I got things to do. Meet me here Sunday for lunch. I'll bring Clarice and Lissy. We're gonna be leavin' early Monday so long as I don't lose everythin' at poker tomorrow."

"Alright." Myra got to her feet. "Thank you for lunch. Good luck tomorrow." She called out to Suzannah and he left them to it, then went to the store to stock up on supplies for the journey. He reasoned that the four girls could sleep in the wagon the one night they would have to sleep rough. He'd bunk down underneath it. He bought a few blankets, some food and oats for the two horses and then returned to the boarding house.

Hank was uncharacteristically nervous at the start of the poker game the next day, but reasoned that he'd never had so much riding on it before. It was a fifty dollar buy in and there was no leaving the game before the end unless you'd lost everything. His four opponents were all much older and he recognised one of them from a previous game at Red's place, remembering the man had given him a run for his money.

However, by the end of the first hand he relaxed and everything went the way he hoped. He walked out of there at the end of the day with six hundred dollars, enough money to improve and expand the saloon, buy stock and keep himself and the girls until they all started making money.

Sunday, he took Clarice and Lissy to the café for lunch where they joined Myra and Suzannah and made plans to leave at eight the next morning. Myra and Suzannah were to walk to the boarding house to meet the others and then they would be on their way.

Mrs Brady made up a large picnic basket early the next morning and reluctantly said goodbye to Hank, telling him there would always be a room for him if he ever visited Denver in the future, although her sideways glance at Clarice told him she wouldn't welcome the girl back if she could avoid it.

Finally the wagon set off, Clarice riding up on the front seat with Hank, the other three in the back with the supplies and Hank and Clarice's enormous collection of clothes. As they turned out of the street, Hank almost halted again as someone called out the name he hadn't used in a year.

"Hans!"

It was his father, dour-looking in one of his dark suits and a tall hat, a prim-looking middle-aged lady on his arm. So he'd found a woman apparently. Hank slapped the reins against the horse's flanks and it increased its pace to a trot, passing Jorgen and heading out of town.

"Who was that?" Clarice asked, glancing over her shoulder.

"No one important," grunted Hank.

"What did he call ya?" she persisted.

He simply turned and glared at her and for once, she shut her mouth and tucked her hand through his arm instead, leaning against his shoulder as they began the long journey to their new home.


	19. Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The journey to Colorado Springs was uneventful and the party arrived towards the end of the second day of travelling. A number of people came out to look at the newcomers and it seemed to Hank that the town wasn't so small after all. It sure looked like there were plenty of men around, who would no doubt pay for his whiskey and the girls.

He drove up to the old bar now and halted the wagon outside.

"This is it?" said Clarice, wrinkling her nose.

"Yeah, this is it."

"Couldn't you've found a better place…?" she went on.

"Don't start," interrupted Hank, his attention switching to Murphy who had now appeared on the porch, a bottle in one hand and a gun in the other. He squinted up at them from blood-shot eyes and then lowered the gun again.

"It's you, is it?" he grunted.

"All packed up, are ya?" Hank said.

"Nah, but it won't take me long." He turned and went back into the building. "Ruby! Marie! Get yer things! We're movin' out!"

Hank jumped to the ground and lifted Clarice down from the wagon. Jake and a couple of other men approached then and helped the three girls down from the back. Hank grinned to himself as Lissy began flirting with the barber; she wasn't wasting any time and would doubtless make him plenty of money. He left them to it and walked into the bar. There were no customers and no whiskey or beer either, from the look of it. Murphy appeared to have used what he had and not bothered to restock.

The old man and his two middle-aged girls were gone an hour later and Hank looked through the rooms in the back of the building. There were three altogether, one large one which had apparently been Murphy's and one for each of the women. He moved his own things into the larger room, then allocated the others. Clarice and Lissy were to share and Myra and Suzannah to have the third until a home could be found for Suzannah and additional rooms built on. Clarice immediately began to complain about everything; it was cramped, it was dirty, she had to share a room, the town was in the middle of nowhere, there appeared to be nowhere to buy clothes, and on and on. Hank ignored her and went back out to the front of the building to deal with the wagon and the two horses.

"There's a small corral 'round the back," Jake advised him and led the way. "Ya got some good-lookin' girls," he commented.

Hank grinned. "Ya liked the look of Lissy?" he said.

"The one with the….?" Jake gestured with both hands to indicate large breasts. Hank snorted.

"What're ya gonna be chargin'?" asked Jake.

"Ain't figured that out yet. Ya can have her for free tonight if ya want, so long as ya give her a bed 'til mornin'; we're short on space." Anything to shut Clarice up.

"Ya serious?" Jake's face lit up.

"Yeah, I'll send her over to ya later. Where's Murphy get his supplies from?"

"Loren. Ya know the guy at the mercantile?"

"I'll pay him a visit tomorrow," Hank said, unharnessing the horse from the wagon and turning it into the small corral. Jake freed the other horse and closed the gate, then returned to his shop. When Hank went back into the building, Clarice was squabbling with Lissy and Myra and Suzannah had disappeared into the room allocated to them.

"Settle down, Clarice," he sighed. "Lissy, ya got a customer waitin' at the barber's shop. Get outta here."

"Sure, Hank." Lissy left immediately.

"Now ya got a room to yerself, at least for tonight," Hank said to Clarice. "So stop yer whinin'."

"It ain't just the room, it's the whole place. We're in the middle of nowhere! Where am I gonna get clothes? Who's gonna deliver the baby?" moaned Clarice.

"I guess ya can order clothes from the mercantile if they ain't got none in stock," Hank said. "The baby ain't comin' for months yet and when it does, there's plenty of women here to help ya."

Clarice opened her mouth, but was silenced by Hank's angry bark. "I don't wanna hear it! Nothin's ever good enough for ya! We're here now and if ya don't like it, it's too bad."

Clarice retreated to her room and stayed there for the rest of the night. There wasn't a great deal more that Hank could do and after a while, he too got an early night. In the morning he would get things moving on expanding the saloon and ordering in supplies.

Lissy returned just after eight o'clock the next day, boasting that Jake had given her a generous tip and she was going to the general store to spend it. Clarice, who had risen in a more pleasant frame of mind, immediately fell to sulking and Hank gave her some money to spend too, exasperated.

That morning he spent a good portion of his money buying lumber, nails, paint and ordering in new beds, whiskey, beer and bar snacks such as pickled eggs and gherkins and so on. Loren Bray pointed him in the direction of a couple of men who were looking for work and Hank employed them to start work immediately on the saloon and later that day, found two more unemployed ranchers who were handy with hammer and nails and took them on too.

Myra was sent back to Loren's store to buy food for everyone and she took to preparing meals as best she could with the limited supplies and facilities. A home was found for Suzannah on only the second day when Hank returned to Loren's store for some cigars. He mentioned to the storekeeper that he needed to find a home for a ten-year-old girl and another customer interrupted the conversation. George Barton, a man of around thirty, said that he and his wife had lost their little daughter to the grip the year before and as his wife was unable to have another child, both had resigned themselves to the fact that there would be no children in their life.

"She's a shy little thing," Hank said. "Well-behaved."

"Whose is she?"

"She's the sister of one of my employees."

"Perhaps you'd bring her to meet me and my wife," George said. "We live in the white cottage over there." He pointed from the doorway.

"Sure," Hank agreed. It looked as if one problem may have been solved.

He took Myra and Suzannah to meet the Bartons that afternoon and Mrs Barton loved the young girl on sight and was keen to take her away from the growing saloon. They agreed to send her to school, which at present was in the church and let Myra visit whenever she wanted to. When they returned to the saloon, Jake was hanging about outside eyeing Lissy who was sitting on the porch with Clarice, the pair apparently having got over their squabble.

Jake turned towards Hank at once. "What's Lissy doin' tonight?" he asked.

Hank grinned. "Liked her, did ya?"

"Ain't much in the way of pretty girls in this town," Jake admitted.

"Well, she costs money this time," Hank told him. "If ya want her for the night, it's five bucks. And give her supper and breakfast too."

"Five bucks?" echoed Jake.

"It'd be around that normally, only ya wouldn't get the whole night," said Hank.

"Alright," Jake agreed after only a brief hesitation.

And so there were only Clarice and Myra at the saloon that night. Clarice was still sulking and retired early, Myra following suit not long after. Hank stayed in the bar area for a while and then decided to go and talk to Clarice; see if he couldn't cheer her up. He tapped quietly on her door and opened it before she had the chance to reply.

"Want some company?" he asked.

"Not really. I ain't in the mood."

"What's wrong with ya?" Hank demanded.

"I'm pregnant, in case ya'd forgotten."

"Didn't make no difference last week when ya got paid for it!"

"Leave me alone!"

"Fine. I got better things to do." Hank backed out of the room and slammed the door. Were they ever going to get back on track? He leaned against the wall outside her door, angry, frustrated and lonely, thinking about the last few months with Clarice. When she wasn't so foul-tempered she could be amazing, but those episodes were getting few and far between.

'_I ain't much good with advice, but I can listen.'_ Myra's voice came to mind. He had found himself telling her things without even realising it. After another moment he pushed himself away from the wall and went to her door. He slowly opened it a few inches and found the room in darkness except for the dim light coming in the window.

"Myra? You awake?" he whispered.

"Yes."

He stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. Myra sat up at once and wrapped her arms around her knees.

"Are ya alright, Hank?" she asked, sounding somewhat nervous.

"Yeah. Just want some company." Hank went to sit on the edge of the bed. "Clarice is drivin' me crazy," he said. "I thought she'd get better once we got here."

"Maybe she will when the buildin' work's all finished and we all got proper rooms," Myra said. "She's still gettin' sick too, I guess that ain't helpin'."

"Yeah, maybe. How about you?"

"I'm fine. I'm happy Suzannah has a good place to live."

Hank smiled and found himself relaxing. He continued chatting to Myra and an hour slipped by. She seemed so sweet and uncomplicated. He told her the story about how he won the saloon at poker and made her laugh and then suddenly he was leaning over to kiss her. He doubted she'd even been kissed before, but somehow her tentative and inexpert response was more exciting than if she'd had years of practise. He slid his arms around her and lowered her back onto the bed.

Myra was soft and yielding and made no protest to anything Hank did. Her only sound was a sudden cry of pain when he thrust into her, ignorant of how a woman's first time might be and therefore no less gentle than he would have been with Clarice.

"Sorry," she whispered and then remained silent until the end, holding onto him and gradually beginning to move with him, the rickety old bed creaking rhythmically beneath them.

Hank stayed there, his arms still around her until she fell asleep, then got up, quickly dressed and tiptoed out of the room and back to his own. He lay awake a while, doing his best not to compare Clarice and Myra, but finding himself doing it anyway. He wondered if Clarice would guess, but found it impossible to feel any guilt. She hadn't shown him much consideration so the hell with her. He rolled over, pulled the pillow over his head and fell asleep.

Hank got up early, went out back to the well and drew some water to wash up, then gave the horses some oats and water. By the time he went back inside Clarice was up.

"Hey," he said.

"'Mornin'. Sorry about last night. I feel better now," she told him.

"Good."

"I ain't sick today, so maybe I'm over that."

"I hope so." Hank pulled a cigar out and lit it, wishing he had some strong coffee to go with it.

"Hank, I ain't deaf, ya know," Clarice said suddenly.

"What?"

"I was wonderin' how long it'd take ya." She stepped closer to him. "Myra," she added. "Don't pretend ya don't know what I'm talkin' about."

"I ain't stupid," Hank muttered, suddenly feeling a pang of guilt which was quickly followed by annoyance. She seemed to think it was fine for her to carry on working, despite being with him and despite being pregnant. He scowled now, expecting her to explode at him, but he was surprised.

"It ain't important," she said with a shrug.

"Ya mean ya don't care?" he asked.

"No. It's just business." Her words were casual, but there was a peculiar look in her eyes he'd never seen before; one of hurt.

"Yeah, just business," he nodded.

Any further discussion was interrupted by the return of Lissy, who handed over her five dollars from Jake.

"He's keen, that one," she said with a giggle. "Been workin' out how many haircuts he's gotta do to have me back again."

"Here." Hank gave her two-fifty back and she went to talk to Clarice.

A few minutes later Myra appeared, looking extremely nervous. Hank quickly escaped outside, relieved at hearing the workmen arriving and hoping that Clarice wasn't going to give Myra a hard time. However, a little later he saw the three girls heading out towards the mercantile, arm in arm and all chattering together. He doubted he'd ever understand Clarice if he lived to be a hundred.

He was even more surprised that night when he found Clarice waiting for him in his room. He had barely got the door closed before she fell on him and proceeded to spend a good portion of the night making it clear she had got over whatever problems she had with him. When they eventually snuggled under the quilt together, exhausted, the last thing he heard before he fell asleep was Clarice saying she loved him.


	20. Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

With four men working on the saloon, the building was finished in just over a week. The bar area had been expanded, four new rooms built on at the back and the existing ones cleaned out and given new beds and curtains. Hank and the three girls now had a room each and there were three spare. Hank had it in mind to get one more girl and keep the remaining two rooms for guests passing through who needed a place to stay.

The minute the bar area was fit to be seen and the supplies had arrived, Hank announced the place was open once again. Loren and Jake were the first through the doors that afternoon and were soon followed by enough men to fill the place. Hank and Clarice worked the bar, serving beer and whiskey to the crowd while Lissy and Myra flirted with the customers. Myra was shy and awkward, but did her best to copy the slightly older girl.

By the time afternoon rolled into evening, one of the customers had requested Lissy's company and paid Hank for her, leaving Myra alone in the bar. She began to look increasingly nervous until Lissy appeared again a while later and drew her aside for a brief chat. Hank eyed them with a frown.

"Hey! Lissy, yer paid to work, not gossip," he said.

"Sorry, Hank."

"Hey, Hank." It was Jake's voice. He was leaning on the bar, an empty glass in his hand, glancing from the bottle Hank held to Lissy and back again, apparently trying to make up his mind which to choose. Hank grinned.

"Thought you was gettin' short on money."

"Found some savin's." He put five dollars on the counter.

Another man appeared at the bar at that moment, a large fierce-looking man with a bristling ginger beard and straggly hair.

"Ya busy, honey?" he asked Lissy.

"Hey, I was here first," Jake frowned. The larger man turned and glared at him and the barber retreated a step.

Lissy slipped around to the other side of the bar and stood on tiptoe to whisper in Hank's ear.

"How about ya let Jake have Myra? He'll go easier on her than most. Ain't too experienced, from what I saw."

"That right?" Hank smirked. "Go on then, that other fella looks like he don't wanna be kept waitin'. Myra! Come here!"

She approached the bar quickly, eyes wide and anxious.

"Ya got yer first customer," he said, indicating Jake.

The pair glanced at each other and the disappointment at missing out on Lissy left Jake's face as he took a proper look at Myra. She smiled tentatively at him and slid her hand through his arm to lead him off to her room. Hank pocketed the ten dollars left on the bar by the two men and surveyed the busy room.

"Looks like yer gonna do well," Clarice said to him. "Must be just about every fella in town here."

Hank grinned. "Better place a bigger order for whiskey next time; this lot're gonna drink me dry in a week."

"Ya need more girls too," added Clarice. "Unless…."

"No," Hank cut in.

"Maybe ya'll find one in Manitou," she added with a smile. "Ain't too far to ride from what ya said."

"Yeah, maybe I'll go there Sunday," he nodded.

Things continued to run smoothly at the saloon. Hank found a new girl in Manitou on Sunday; a voluptuous blonde named Janie. She was on her day off from the saloon there and Hank ran into her in the street. She didn't have a contract and only earned a dollar fifty a time so was delighted to accept Hank's offer of two-fifty. She had few belongings and packed up what she had there and then, returning to Colorado Springs with him that afternoon on the back of his horse.

Janie fitted in well with the other girls and proved popular with the customers. As time went on the money rolled in and Hank made further improvements to the saloon, including a smart green-topped poker table which helped keep the men there for hours on Friday and Saturday nights.

Clarice's pregnancy had begun to show now and although she often worked the bar, she began spending more and more time in her room away from the customers. Much to Hank's surprise she stopped complaining about everything and remained affectionate, frequently spending the nights with him until she found it too uncomfortable.

During this time a new family came to town and began having a large building constructed opposite the saloon. Ethan and Charlotte Cooper had recently sold up their farm in Topeka after Ethan heard there was gold to be had in the mountains surrounding Pike's Peak. He built a mine there and with it came miners who spent their wages on Hank's whiskey and girls. The new building across the street became a boarding house which Charlotte Cooper ran, offering rooms and food to anyone passing through.

Clarice called on her once to buy some food for Hank and the girls and was delighted to discover that she was also a midwife. She had a baby of her own, a boy named Matthew. Clarice began making regular visits to her, finding a friend in the older woman and a much appreciated supplier of proper meals.

For a few short months, Clarice seemed to have accepted her pregnancy and even looked forward to the baby's arrival. However, her improved nature only lasted until the end of her seventh month and then the complaints and the outbursts began again. She felt uncomfortable and unattractive, she hated not being the centre of attention, her feet and her back hurt and she was bored out of her mind. She lashed out at Hank at every opportunity and threatened to return to work the minute she had recovered from the baby's birth. She seemed to expect Hank to do his best to appease her, but since becoming owner of the saloon and master of the girls, he adopted a sense of pride and refused to continue pandering to her. On the few occasions he did bend, his attention to her had little effect and he began to feel it was a waste of his time to make the effort.

Clarice eventually realised her tantrums were getting her nowhere and sulked instead, sometimes shutting herself away in her room for days on end, emerging only to go the outhouse or to get food and rebuffing any attempts Hank made to spend time with her. However, when she did see him, she complained she barely saw anything of him.

"Ya won't let me near ya!" he reminded her, feeling that he couldn't win whatever he did.

"Yer too busy with yer girls anyhow," she muttered.

"I ain't touched 'em," Hank said bitterly.

"No?"

"No. Though I'm sorely tempted, the way yer carryin' on. If you ain't screamin' at me, yer avoidin' me."

"Go to hell, Hank," retorted Clarice.

"Ya see? Nothin's ever good enough for ya," sighed Hank. "What d'ya want me to do?"

"I don't care what ya do."

"Fine." Hank backed out of the room and closed the door, torn between fury and hurt and longing to hit someone or something.

"Hank?"

He jumped and spun around to face Myra.

"Are ya alright?" she asked.

"Get back to work!" he growled.

Myra turned and walked off without a word and Hank remained in the corridor, pacing up and down until he felt like returning to the bar, although he remained bad-tempered and uncommunicative for the rest of the night, unable to get his mind off Clarice. Things had been so good with her for the most part, oddly enough since he slept with Myra, and he'd gotten used to her teasing and flirting with him again, creeping into his room and being probably more loving than she'd ever been. Now she was worse than before. He told himself she'd be better again after the baby was born and that he'd just have to put up with her until then, but whenever they came into contact with each other he doubted she was going to change.

The girls kept out of his way as much as possible that night until the saloon closed in the early hours, then all headed straight for their rooms rather than wait for him to hand out their earnings, which he normally did every day rather than try to figure it out after a week.

"Hey, where ya'll goin'?" he called after them. Lissy halted and came back although Myra and Janie continued to their rooms.

"Figured ya didn't want botherin'," she said.

Hank shrugged and handed over her money and five dollars each for the other two.

"Y'alright, Hank?" she asked then, stepping closer.

He said nothing, but raised one hand and idly ran it through her hair, then rested it on her shoulder. She turned her head and brushed her lips against his fingers. Hank just stared down at her for a moment or two. He wasn't about to start spilling his guts to her, but she could sure do something about cheering him up. He dropped both hands to her waist, lifting her onto the nearby poker table, shoving her skirts up to her waist. Lissy lay back on the table at once, pulling both knees up and folding her legs around Hank as he bent over her, pinning her down with his body, one hand fisted in her hair. Minutes later he let her go and pulled away, adjusting his clothing and watching as she sat up and shook her dress down over her knees. Neither one of them spoke, but put out the lights and walked to their rooms in silence.

Hank lay awake until dawn, thinking about Clarice in the next room and wondering if there was any point to it any more. He wasn't even sure if he still loved her although the pain he felt most of the time indicated he did, and she sure as hell didn't act like she loved him. She constantly punished him for her own dissatisfaction and he found himself turning to his whores for comfort; the physical kind anyway. It wasn't any kind of relationship any more and God only knew what she was going to be like when the kid was born – probably blaming him for it all over again.

The next few weeks dragged by for all concerned. Clarice grew bigger and more uncomfortable and even more unhappy. She began fighting with the other girls, even Lissy who was her closest friend. It seemed as if everyone was awaiting the arrival of Clarice's baby in the hopes her attitude would change afterwards and eventually her time came late one Sunday night.

Hank was disturbed by a loud scream from Clarice's room and he threw himself out of bed and ran down the corridor half-dressed to see what happened. The other girls appeared too and all joined Hank as he opened Clarice's door. She was lying on the bed, clutching her stomach and moaning. Lissy and Janie rushed to her at once.

"She's in labour," Lissy said.

"Leave me alone," Clarice groaned, pushing Lissy away. "I ain't doin' this."

"She's been drinkin'," said Janie, picking up a bottle from beside the bed. "She smells real strong of whiskey."

Hank frowned, remembering a few instances where bottles seemed to have gone missing from the bar without explanation and wondered if she had been drowning her miseries alone during those times they didn't see her all day.

"I wanted somethin' to stop the pain," said Clarice, tears flooding her eyes now.

"How long've ya been havin' pains?" asked Lissy anxiously.

"Dunno. Since before supper." Clarice threw her head back, writhing on the bed and shrieking in agony again.

"Oh, my God, that was hours ago," gasped Janie. "Why didn't ya call us?"

"Myra, fetch Charlotte Cooper," Hank said over his shoulder. "Hurry up!"

Myra fled and Hank walked into the room, going to Clarice's side.

"Can I do anythin'?"

"Haven't ya done enough?" she said through her teeth. "Get away from me!"

"Leave it to us, Hank, she'll be alright," Lissy said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

He backed away, but hovered by the door until Charlotte arrived minutes later with Myra. The midwife promptly ushered him out of the room and Myra too.

"There's enough folks in here, go on," she said and proceeded issuing orders to Janie and Lissy to fetch clean towels and hot water and so on. Hank retreated to the bar with Myra and poured himself a large whiskey, then gestured with the bottle towards Myra. She shook her head and sat down at one of the tables.

"How long d'ya reckon it'll take?" asked Hank.

"I dunno. I heard it can go on for a day or two."

Hank swore under his breath. "She probably made things worse for herself drinkin'." He sat down heavily at the table and took a large gulp from his glass, wincing as Clarice screamed again at the top of her lungs. "I think she's been doin' it for a while, I noticed a few bottles missin' now and then. Maybe it was my fault."

"I don't think so, Hank, ya did the best ya could," Myra said.

"Ya think so?"

"I like Clarice, mostly, but she ain't an easy person. Seems like whatever any of us does right now, it's wrong."

"That's for sure." Hank sighed heavily. "She never wanted a kid. Blamed me for everythin'."

"It takes two," Myra said softly.

"Yeah, that's what I said. Still feel like I failed her, though. Probably gonna make a lousy father an' all, if she even lets me near the kid. Just like my own pa."

"What was he like?" asked Myra.

"Ya saw him once," Hank admitted. "When we was leavin' Denver he called out after us. Hell knows why, he was never interested in nothin' I did before. He always resented me 'cause my ma died when I was born." Surprising himself once again by his sudden desire to talk, Hank told her about his father and brothers and his unhappy childhood before he went to work at the farm with Billy. Meanwhile Clarice continued to cry and scream through the night, the baby still showing no signs of coming into the world as dawn came.

Eventually at around seven o'clock, Charlotte walked slowly into the bar looking exhausted. Hank and Myra turned towards her immediately, suddenly becoming aware that there had been silence for quite a while and no sound of a baby crying. Hank's guts clenched as he waited for Charlotte to speak.

"It's a boy," she said.

"Is he alright?" asked Myra. "We ain't heard him cryin'."

"They're both alright, so far as I can tell," Charlotte said. "Clarice lost a lot of blood, but she'll recover, I'm sure. She wouldn't have had such a hard time if she'd been sober at the beginnin'." She glanced at Hank disapprovingly at this point as if she thought it was his fault. "The baby...he's strong, but he was blue an awful long time after we got him out. Didn't start breathin' for long enough." She sighed heavily now. "Sometimes they don't make it after that and if they do, sometimes they ain't right."

"Not right? What d'ya mean?" asked Myra. Hank seemed incapable of speech, staring at Charlotte with growing horror.

"Well...sometimes when they get older, they don't talk or they act funny. They have somethin' wrong in the head."

"Ya think Clarice's baby'll be like that?" Myra said anxiously.

"I don't know, it's impossible to tell until he gets old enough to walk and talk. I gotta get back to my own kid now, his pa'll be wantin' to get to work. You send for me if there's any problems."

"Sure, thanks, Mrs Cooper," said Myra and got up to let her out. She closed the door and turned back to Hank who was still sitting at the table. "Ya goin' in to see them?"

Hank shook his head slowly. Myra left him and he poured another whiskey from the half empty bottle in front of him, his hands shaking. If only he'd paid more attention to Clarice; maybe he could have stopped her drinking; maybe he could have made her happier; maybe she wouldn't have laid in her room half the night getting drunk and hiding the fact that she was in labour instead of calling for him. Now there could be something wrong with the kid and it didn't seem to matter how Clarice had behaved any more; all he could think was that somehow it was his own fault.


	21. Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Hank remained in the bar for another couple of hours. None of the girls bothered him and he finished the bottle of whiskey which stood on the table in front of him. Eventually he pulled himself to his feet and walked a little unsteadily through the door into the corridor, his heart thumping unevenly. He made his way to Clarice's room and then stood outside the door for several minutes, ridiculously nervous about seeing the baby and not looking forward to another confrontation with Clarice. Eventually he pushed the door open quietly and looked inside.

Clarice and the baby were both sleeping, while Lissy sat beside the bed watching over them. The baby was nestled in a makeshift cradle, formed from a woven basket lined with towels. All that was visible of him was his face and a tuft of dark hair. He looked normal; well, as normal as Hank thought babies looked, considering he'd never been that close to one before.

Lissy stood up now and moved towards the door, stretching her arms above her head and yawning.

"I'll leave ya to it," she said.

"No, don't," Hank protested, but she had already slipped out and closed the door behind her. He exhaled shakily and took a step closer to the bed, glancing from the baby to Clarice and back again.

"Hank?" Her eyes opened slowly and looked up at him.

"Hey. How are ya?"

"Tired. Feel like I got trampled or somethin'."

"Well, ya look good. Bit pale," Hank said, sinking onto the chair Lissy had vacated.

"Thanks." Clarice shifted slightly, propping herself up against the pillows. "He won't bite, ya know, ya can pick him up."

"Uh….no….don't wanna disturb him," muttered Hank, terrified at the thought of picking the baby up. He might hurt it or something.

"In case yer wonderin', he is yours," said Clarice with a wry smile, glancing down at the sleeping baby. "My ma had dark hair."

"So did mine." Hank sighed heavily. "Saw a picture of her once." Oddly enough, given her past behaviour, it had never crossed his mind that she might have tried to pin someone else's baby on him.

"I'm sorry," Clarice said then, much to his surprise.

"What for?"

"Everythin'. He might have somethin' wrong with him, Charlotte said. I'd been drinkin', I didn't have the energy to keep pushin'. They practically had to drag him outta me and they said he couldn't breathe for a long time."

Hank grimaced at the vision her words provoked.

"If he ain't right, it's down to me," she went on.

"It mighta happened even if ya did everythin' right," Hank said. "Ain't no point blamin' yerself." Just what he had been doing all night.

"It's kinda hard not to." She was silent for a moment and Hank simply sat waiting for her to continue, not having any idea what to do or to say to her.

"I'm gonna call him Zack," she told him suddenly.

"That's a good name," he nodded.

"Look, Hank…." She waited for him to meet her eyes before continuing. "You and me….we ain't good for each other. The way we fight ain't gonna be good for Zack neither."

"What're ya sayin'?" His breath stuck in his throat and for a brief moment all he could hear was his own heartbeat.

"I'm sayin' we oughta call it a day. Whatever it is we got, it ain't workin'. I wanna go back to work in a few months and I know ya don't want that."

"No, I don't," Hank said gruffly. "'Specially not now ya got a kid. What in hell d'ya wanna work for? I'll give ya money, for both of ya."

"It ain't just about the money."

"Then what? Ya like the variety? Ya tellin' me I ain't enough for ya?" barked Hank.

"No. I guess it's just what I am. I like attention. I like feelin' wanted. And I'm sick of fightin' with ya. 'Sides, it ain't just me. Ya said once ya hadn't been near the other girls, 'cept for that time with Myra, but I know that ain't true any more."

"Ya kept drivin' me away!" Hank retorted.

"I know I did. I ain't really blamin' ya, Hank, I'm just sayin' there's nowhere for us to go. I don't wanna leave here, unless ya want me to. But if we ain't tied to each other, maybe we won't kill each other before the kid makes it to his teens."

Hank closed his eyes for a moment, knowing what she said was right, but feeling the crushing pain of rejection none the less. The only thing that had come close to being his, even though she fought against it often enough, was now slipping away from him.

"Alright," he heard himself say, opening his eyes again. "I'm still givin' ya money for Zack though. Ya can say what ya like."

"I'll say thank you," Clarice said softly.

Hank nodded and got to his feet. "I'll leave ya to get some sleep," he said and left the room.

The corridor was deserted and he halted there and leaned back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut again with a frown as he heard Clarice begin to cry. He felt completely alone, not for the first time in his life and after another brief glance down the corridor to ensure the other girls weren't about to appear, he let his own tears fall.

A couple of minutes later, sounds came from Janie's room, which was nearest to where Hank stood and he pulled himself together in an instant, scrubbed his shirt sleeve across his eyes and made his way back into the bar to tidy the place ready for the customers arriving later.

Charlotte Cooper returned later that morning, baby Matthew cradled in one arm, to check on Clarice and Zack. She brought with her a large basket of food for everyone and spent a little time helping Clarice feed Zack for the first time. She instructed the girls to keep checking on the mother and baby and to send for her should they feel the need. Hank kept out of the way until she had gone and later did his best to keep his distance from the girls, especially Myra, for fear of being tempted to confide in her again. Instead he swallowed his misery and opened up the saloon as usual, however, there was no escaping the gossip.

"Heard that girl of yours had her baby this mornin'," Jake said, the minute he had been served with a large whiskey. "That mean she's gonna be workin' soon?" He grinned now.

"Yeah. Eventually," Hank said stiffly.

"Whose kid is it, anyhow? D'ya know? Does _she_?"

Loren, who was with Jake as usual, sniggered at this and elbowed the barber in the ribs.

"That's her business," grunted Hank and turned away to speak to another customer, feeling a little sick with himself for not having owned up to being the father. Hadn't his own father turned away from him? Now he was doing the same, with the poor excuses that the mother no longer wanted him and his so-called friends would make fun of him for getting a whore pregnant. In addition, the girls would no doubt think he was a complete heel for not claiming the kid.

The day crawled slowly into evening and Hank poured almost as much whiskey down his neck as he did into his customers' glasses. By the time the last few men staggered out into the night and he locked the doors, his vision was blurred and he felt ill from a combination of too much to drink and nothing to eat in addition to his increasing unhappiness and guilt. He went to his room, pulled off his boots and collapsed on the bed fully clothed, keeping as still as possible while the room spun around him and his stomach rolled. It was no good; the whiskey wasn't going to stay down.

He hauled himself to his feet again, pushed the window up and vomited out of it onto the ground at the back of the saloon. He couldn't ever remember being sick from drinking and decided it was more to do with his mind than his stomach. He left the window open and lay on the bed again, feeling marginally better, but plagued more than ever with thoughts of Clarice and Zack. The former didn't want him and the latter would doubtless be better off without him. Hadn't his own father said he was good for nothing on more than one occasion? He'd rarely agreed with Jorgen about anything, but for once he was forced to admit the man could have been right.

He sat up again and poured some water from the jug on the chest into a mug, swilled his mouth out and then drank some. Suddenly he didn't want to be alone any longer. He slid his braces off his shoulders, took his shirt off and threw it to one side, but left the remainder of his clothes on. Then he left his room and made his way quietly down the corridor to Myra's.

He opened the door without knocking and slipped into the room. She was getting ready for bed, her clothes lying neatly on the chair in front of the dresser and her nightdress in her hands. She gasped at the sudden appearance of Hank and held the garment up in front of her.

"What're ya doin' that for?" Hank stepped closer, grasped the nightdress and pulled it out of her hands, dropping it onto the end of the bed.

"Ya startled me." Myra dropped her hands to her sides and looked up at him a little self-consciously. "Did ya want somethin'?"

"Yeah, I want some company." He reached out and touched her face for a second. "Get in the bed."

She turned away without a word and quickly slid under the quilt. Hank removed the rest of his clothes and climbed into the bed, immediately drawing Myra into his arms. He did nothing more than just hold onto her for some time and she began stroking one hand over his hair, which by now had grown some way past his shoulders. Eventually he pulled back a little with a sigh.

"Clarice say anythin' to ya?" he asked.

"She said you ain't together no more," Myra told him. "I'm sorry. Ya loved her a lot." It wasn't a question, but a statement.

"Yeah. She's right, though. We're no good for each other." He leaned closer again and nuzzled Myra's neck, longing to forget about everything, even for a little while. Somehow Myra always took his mind off even the worst situation. "Ya smell good. That perfume?"

"No, just some fancy soap Loren's sellin'."

"Ya smell like that all over?" He turned his face away from her neck and pressed it between her breasts instead. She did indeed smell of whatever flower the soap was meant to imitate, all over.

"Ya sure this is what ya want right now?" Myra said doubtfully.

"I always want ya. Don't matter what else is goin' on." He rolled her onto her back now and slid his body onto hers, wedging his knee between her thighs to push them apart. "Ya want me, don't ya?"

"Yes," Myra whispered.

She slid her arms around him, holding his hair away from his face as he plunged into her, one hand under the small of her back to lift her lower body upwards to meet him. He dropped his head forward beside hers, pressing his mouth to her ear and making her shiver as he breathed into it. His arms tightened around her, crushing her against his own body at the end before he slid his weight off her and rolled away onto his back. Myra reached down to pull the quilt back up over them, where it had slipped partly off the bed and lay down with her head resting against his shoulder.

Hank didn't think he would be able to sleep, but within a few minutes he found he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. He abandoned the idea of returning to his own room and stayed where he was with Myra snuggling against him as he drifted into slumber.


	22. Chapter 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The next six months were awkward for everyone at the saloon. Clarice and Hank, both miserable, avoided each other as much as possible in the beginning. Clarice spent most of her time in her room with Zack and Hank occupied himself with whiskey and occasionally one or other of the girls although he refrained from making it a regular occurrence, still racked with guilt over his failed relationship and the baby which he was a father to in only the loosest sense of the word. Clarice wanted nothing from him, other than the money he gave her each week and he felt useless and lonely.

For the customers, nothing seemed any different and most of them hadn't seen Clarice in so long that they'd almost forgotten the pregnant blonde girl who had served a few drinks and then barely been seen. There was some gossip that Charlotte Cooper had delivered her baby and that there might be something wrong with it, but since no one had actually seen the child, the interest rapidly faded.

However, after those six months, Clarice had recovered her figure and stopped breast-feeding in favour of a sweetened cows' milk substitute, which initially made Zack sick but eventually was accepted. Then she appeared in the bar one Saturday night, wearing one of the fine gowns she had bought in Denver, her hair a mass of loose curls, her face made up, looking just as beautiful as the first time Hank had ever seen her.

Now his heart sank as she joined him behind the bar and served a few drinks for an hour or two, chatting and flirting with the men who crowded in front of her. Later, when he was occupied by a couple of the regulars paying for Lissy and Janie, Clarice disappeared. He scanned the room, but there was no sign of her and no sign of the miner she'd last been seen talking to either.

"Myra, where's Clarice?" he asked.

"Umm..." Myra licked her lips nervously. "She went to her room with some fella. She said she was gonna start workin' tonight."

Hank swore viciously under his breath and turned away. Somehow he had thought – hoped - that she wouldn't do it. For a moment he imagined himself charging into her room, dragging the man off her, but he had to remind himself that she didn't belong to him; they weren't together any more and she didn't have a contract either so there was nothing he could do about it. He could either put up with it, or tell her to leave and there was no way he was going to do that, especially with Zack. However, there was one part of it he refused to accept.

When the saloon closed, Clarice went over to him and placed five dollars on the bar in front of him.

"Your share of my earnin's," she said.

"Keep it," Hank said gruffly.

"But..."

"I don't want it," he interrupted. "I'm guessin' I can't stop ya workin' since we ain't together, but ya can keep yer money."

"Ya knew I was goin' to go back to work eventually," Clarice reminded him.

"Don't mean I have to like it." Hank turned away from her, leaving the money on the counter. When he looked back she had disappeared and taken the coins with her.

As time went on, it became clear that Zack wasn't right. As a baby he hardly ever cried, but as a toddler he didn't talk either. He would say 'Ma' to Clarice, but that was all. He never ventured from her room and would sit for hours in silence, scribbling with a pencil on scraps of paper, uninterested in the toys Clarice obtained for him from Loren.

On the few occasions when Hank went in to see the pair of them, Zack would immediately disappear into Clarice's makeshift closet, formed by curtains hanging across the corner of the room, which he had apparently learned to do whenever she had a customer and no amount of coaxing would draw him out.

Hank continued to keep his distance from Clarice as he accepted he had lost her, but after a time she began creeping into his room again every few weeks, claiming she missed being with him. Hank told himself nothing good would come of it and that he would be better off keeping away from her, but he found he couldn't do it. He still loved her and part of him became convinced that in time she would realise she made a mistake in ending things and they would have a future after all.

He went on hoping, in limbo and unable to move on, furious with himself for letting Clarice keep him hanging on the way she did. It wasn't until Zack turned five that he realised she was never going to change and that he was wasting his time waiting. The only problem was that with Clarice continuing to live at the saloon, he wouldn't be able to forget her and he couldn't bring himself to make her and Zack leave.

In the end, he didn't have to make any decision; fate made it for him. Janie caught _that_ disease, much to Hank's annoyance, and he was forced to send for the doctor from Manitou. Jake always stepped in to sew up cuts, lance boils, pull out teeth and remove the occasional bullet, but he couldn't cure what was common to careless whores. The doctor came to the saloon one morning and attended to Janie, then left again quickly, saying he needed to get back to his patients. A couple of them appeared to have caught the grip. He rode off at a gallop with five dollars of Hank's money, leaving Hank vowing to make Janie pay for it when she recovered.

Ironically, it wasn't Janie who caught the grip that the doctor had already been carrying, but Clarice who had let him in and hung around to make sure Janie would be alright. No one realised what it was at first when Clarice began to sweat and shiver and eventually fainted that Sunday afternoon. Hank carried her to her bed and sent Lissy on one of his horses to fetch the doctor again. She returned hours later, to report that the doctor was on his deathbed with the grip along with a large number of his patients and that he wouldn't be going anywhere except to his grave.

"D'ya think that's what Clarice has?" she asked anxiously.

"Hell!" groaned Hank. "Get Zack out of here. Keep him away from her."

Lissy took the boy away and left him for Janie to care for, since the other girl would be unable to work for some time. Meanwhile, Lissy returned to care for Clarice, advising that if it was the grip, she would be alright since she'd already had it as a young girl.

Hank closed the saloon and paced around the bar, drinking and smoking and cursing the doctor who had brought the sickness with him. He didn't notice when Myra took over from Lissy the next morning so that Lissy could get some rest and it was the evening before he spotted Myra coming out of Clarice's room.

"Where's Lissy?" he demanded.

"She needed to rest; I said I'd take over," Myra told him.

"Have ya had it?"

"No."

"Then you stay outta there!" exclaimed Hank. "Ya wanna get it too?"

"I'm sure I'll be fine, I ain't gettin' too close," said Myra.

"Do as yer told!" snapped Hank. "Lissy! Get out here and take care of Clarice!"

Lissy appeared at once and returned to Clarice's side.

"She's worse," she reported shortly after. "Her fever ain't comin' down."

"I'm goin' to get Jake," Hank decided.

"What's he gonna do? He ain't no doctor," said Lissy.

"He's all there is." Hank left the saloon and strode across to the barber's shop. It was closed and Jake was sitting in a chair in the corner, drinking alone since the saloon hadn't opened. Hank hammered on the door.

"Jake! Open up!"

Jake put his glass down, scowling, and went to the door.

"Whaddya want, Hank?" he grumbled. "Can't a fella drink in peace?"

"Ya can drink all ya want when the saloon opens again. Come with me; Clarice is sick."

"With what?" Jake asked, his eyes narrowing.

"That damned doctor from Manitou brought the grip with him," said Hank. "Hurry up."

"Forget it. I ain't comin' and catchin' it an' all." Jake took a step backwards.

"Yer the only chance she's got," growled Hank.

"Why can't ya get the doctor?"

"He's _dead!" _cried Hank, pulling his pistol out of its holster suddenly and pointing it at Jake. "So will you be if ya don't get over there and _do somethin'!"_

"Al_right_!" Jake, his face pale, stepped sideways around Hank towards the door, his eyes fixed on the gun. "Put that away, will ya? I'm comin'!"

Hank reholstered the gun, spun away and charged out of the door, Jake following.

"Ya know, I don't know nothin' about the grip," Jake said as they reached the saloon. "'Cept how to bring the fever down."

"Well, do that then," Hank said, ushering him towards Clarice's room.

Jake stepped into the room and tentatively approached the bed. Clarice lay on the bed, uncovered except for her chemise and pantaloons, which were soaked with her sweat. Her face was pale and sickly looking, her hair sticking to her neck and shoulders. Lissy was carefully sponging her face with a cool damp cloth, which appeared to be having no effect.

"I'm gonna have to bleed her," Jake said.

_"What?_" exclaimed Lissy. Hank frowned at him from the doorway where he had halted, reluctant to get any closer.

"Let some blood outta her. It'll cool her down," said Jake. "A lot of doctors do it. It's the only thing I know that might help."

"So get on with it," Hank told him.

"I'll need a bowl."

Lissy got up to fetch one and then she and Hank watched in horror as Jake made a tourniquet from a ribbon which lay on the chest beside Clarice's bed, tying it tightly around her arm above the elbow, and then proceeded to cut her just below the tie, allowing blood to trickle from her arm into the bowl. Clarice moaned and tossed her head on the pillow, mercifully too sick to open her eyes and see what was happening to her. Hank turned away, finding himself unable to watch any longer and only hoping Jake knew what he was doing.

"Hank?" Janie appeared in front of him then.

"What? Is the kid alright?" he asked.

"He's fine. It's Myra. I think she caught it."

"Where is she?"

"In her room."

"Oh, God," muttered Hank, clenching his fists. He turned away and punched the wall. "Keep away from her," he told Janie. "I don't want you gettin' it an' all; ya gotta take care of Zack."

"Alright, Hank." Janie went back to her room and Hank continued to hover in the corridor for a moment, before he went to look in Myra's room.

Myra lay on top of her bed covers, her face and hair wet, weakly pulling at the buttons on her dress in an attempt to unfasten them. Hank gingerly reached out to touch her face and discovered that she was burning up. He hesitated for a minute, dreading catching the fever himself, but then bent over her with a sigh and began to unfasten her dress. He took it off altogether and dropped it on the floor, then grabbed the nearest fabric he could find - one of Myra's chemises - and thrust it into the water bowl on the chest, squeezed it out and placed it on her forehead. Then he backed towards the door, shivering and wrapping his arms around himself.

"Jake!" he called. "Ya finished in there?"

"Yeah." Jake appeared in the corridor. "Done what I can."

"Myra's sick too," Hank said, gesturing into her room. Jake walked past him with a sigh and went to Myra's side.

"Yer gonna owe me plenty for this," he said as he began to attend to Myra. "If I live long enough to hold ya to it."

"Anythin'," muttered Hank. He left Jake with Myra and returned to Clarice's room, observing from the door. Her arm was bandaged now and she appeared to be unconscious, her face so devoid of colour that she appeared dead. It was only the slight movement of her chest rising and falling as she breathed that proved otherwise.

Jake finally left the saloon an hour later, a bottle of whiskey in his hand which Hank had given him.

"Don't think one bottle is gonna do it," was his parting shot as he exited rapidly and returned to the barber's shop.

Lissy spent the night and most of the next morning running from Clarice's room to Myra's and back again, bathing their faces and arms and trying to make them swallow some water while Hank hovered, feeling useless, a bottle in his hand constantly, convinced that the two girls weren't going to make it. It was around noon when Lissy emerged from Clarice's room, exhausted and pale. Hank's heart almost stopped for a moment, sure she was going to tell him that Clarice was gone.

"She wants to see ya," Lissy said.

"What?"

"Clarice, she's askin' for ya."

"She's better?"

Lissy shook her head. "She's bad, but she's talkin'. I don't know if it's a good sign or a bad one."

Hank didn't stop to ask what she meant by that, but hurried to Clarice's room. She was lying flat, her skin appearing translucent, her beautiful honey-coloured eyes dull and surrounded by dark shadows.

"Hank," she said and then stopped to lick her lips.

Hank sat down beside the bed, forgetting about his fear of catching the fever.

"Ya want some water or somethin'?" he asked.

"No."

He reached out and took hold of her hand instead. It was hot and sticky, but he barely noticed.

"Lissy said ya wanted to see me," he prompted her.

"I wanted to tell ya somethin'. It's important."

"Well, don't worry about it now, wait till yer better," he said.

"Hank, listen to me." She squeezed his hand weakly. "I want ya to know I'm sorry. For the way I treated ya. I've always loved ya, Hank, I just ain't good at relationships. I wish I coulda been. For you and for Zack."

"Stop it!" Hank choked, beginning to realise she was saying goodbye. "It don't matter about any of that. Yer gonna get better..."

"Hank!" she interrupted. "Please. Let me finish." She licked her lips again, breathing hard with the effort of talking so much. "Ya gotta find Zack a proper home. This ain't no place for a kid. I wanted him with me, but I didn't wanna leave either. I ain't done right by him, but you can. Find somebody to look after him."

"Clarice, stop sayin' things like that," Hank begged, his voice shaking.

"Promise me."

"I promise," he said. He would have said anything she wanted at that point, but what he really wanted to do was pick her up and shake her; to tell her to stop being so stupid; to tell her she was going to be alright.

She smiled now and closed her eyes.

"I'm so tired," she whispered. "Will ya stay till I fall asleep?"

"Sure I will. I love ya." He reached out with his free hand to brush a strand of hair off her face, then sat still, watching her. Her chest continued to rise and fall slowly and he watched her take each breath. Her hand began to feel cooler and it seemed as if the fever were leaving her. Hank leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He would sleep for a little while with her.

"Hank?" He frowned before he opened his eyes. Couldn't Lissy leave them alone for even five minutes?

"Hank!" She shook his shoulder and he looked up.

"What?" He glanced at the clock and realised several hours had passed.

"She's gone, Hank, I'm so sorry," Lissy said.

He turned his attention back to Clarice in disbelief. Her face looked no different than it had before he fell asleep, but her hand in his was stiff and cold and her body was still; she was no longer breathing. He let go of her and dropped his head into his hands. His heart felt as if it were being squeezed inside his chest by a huge fist that tried to make it stop beating and he remembered how he felt when Lillian died. It was like that all over again, only a hundred times worse.


	23. Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Hank didn't know how long he sat by Clarice's bed, but it could have been hours. He remembered the first time he had met her, the first time they slept together, the first time – and the last – that she said she loved him. They had spent so much time over the last few years fighting and now it seemed such a waste. She was barely thirty and her life was over. He had no idea what to do now and simply sat there waiting for someone to tell him.

"Hank?" It was Lissy's voice again.

"What?" he said, not looking at her.

"Jake's here."

"What the hell for? Ain't much he can do now, is there?" Hank said bitterly.

"Janie fetched him. He's an undertaker, Hank, as well as everythin' else."

Hank turned to look at her now and spotted Jake and the coloured man who was the blacksmith standing behind her. For a brief moment it occurred to him that he ought to throw the latter out; he didn't allow coloured folks in the saloon. Then he remembered that Clarice had only had a fever until Jake decided to butcher her and now she was dead. He catapulted off his chair, shoved Lissy roughly out of the way and grabbed Jake by the fronts of his fancy vest, slamming him back against the corridor wall.

"She's dead 'cause of you!" he snarled. "Ya probably bled her to death! Ya said ya knew what you were doin'!"

"I didn't say that," stammered Jake. "I said I only know how to get fevers down. I can't cure the grip; I ain't a doctor."

"Ya killed her!" Hank pulled Jake away from the wall and banged him back against it once more.

"Woah! Cool down, fella!"

Strong arms gripped him from behind and hauled him away from Jake and he looked down to see dark hands clutching him. He rammed an elbow backwards into the blacksmith's ribs, wrenched himself free and turned around.

"Keep yer hands off me, boy!" he snarled.

"Hank, stop it!" Lissy cried. "They just wanna help. They gotta take Clarice and get her ready to be buried."

The sudden rage which had filled Hank evaporated almost as quickly as it had arrived and he was left feeling as if he had been punched in the guts. She was dead, whether it was the fever or the blood loss. He eyed Jake again and then noticed for the first time that there was a wooden stretcher leaning up against the wall nearby. Jake stared back warily, looking as if he would turn tail and flee if Hank made another moved towards him.

"Ya better get on with it," Hank grunted and walked past them into the bar.

By the time Jake and the blacksmith, Robert E, carried Clarice out on the stretcher, her body covered with the sheet from her bed, Hank was already a quarter of the way down a fresh bottle of whiskey. He didn't move from the chair he had thrown himself onto until the bottle was empty and even then he only rose to snatch a replacement from the bar. He managed to drink half of its contents too before he slumped forward onto the table and lost consciousness.

"Hank?"

He raised his head and squinted up through his hair at Janie. It was daylight and his head was thumping fiercely.

"Thought ya might be needin' this." She placed a large mug of coffee on the table in front of him. It was strong and black and when he tasted it, he noticed she had loaded it with sugar too.

"Thanks," he murmured.

"I'm so sorry about everythin'," she said. "If I hadn't gotten sick, that doctor wouldn't've even come here and..." She broke off tearfully.

"Yeah, well, it's done now," sighed Hank, feeling as if he didn't have the strength to attack her too although it had already crossed his mind that Clarice wouldn't have caught the grip if Janie hadn't needed the doctor. Nor would...

"Myra?" he said suddenly.

"She's still sick," Janie said. "Lissy's with her."

Hank gulped the rest of the coffee, grimacing as it burned his mouth, then got up quickly and made his way to Myra's room. She was naked now and Lissy was sponging her all over with cold water. Lissy looked up at him sadly, but said nothing. He noticed that she looked worn out and almost ill herself. He doubted she'd slept in a week. He hadn't himself except when he'd passed out from drinking and he didn't even know what day it was, although he guessed it must be getting on for a week since Clarice first got sick. It felt like a month.

"She any better?" he asked now.

"She ain't no worse," said Lissy. "If only this fever would break."

Myra's head rolled from one side to the other on the pillow and she moaned through dry lips, her eyes remaining closed. Lissy soaked a fresh cloth in water and squeezed drops from it into her mouth.

"Take a break," Hank said.

"Later. I need to..."

"I'll do it," said Hank roughly. "Go on."

Lissy put the cloth down without another word and slowly left the room. Hank sat down on the chair with a sigh and stared at Myra, her body so slim and pale. She had been thin before, but now her ribs were visible under her skin and her face was gaunt and grey. She was still now and apparently sleeping, her small breasts rising and falling with each breath. Hank picked up the cool, damp cloth and wiped her face carefully with it, then touched her cheek. It didn't seem so hot as before, but that was probably down to the constant application of cool water. He put the cloth down again and covered her up with a thin sheet, thinking she would probably open her eyes and be self-conscious about her lack of clothing. If she ever did open her eyes again.

Hours passed and Myra didn't wake, although she continued to breathe. Hank touched her face every so often, dismayed to find she was still burning up. Eventually he got up, stiff from sitting so long on the wooden chair, and paced the room instead, cursing everything and everybody that came to mind and trying not to think about Clarice's body lying in Jake's shop while he did whatever he reckoned he had to do. Still Myra didn't stir and he was sure it was only a matter of time before she took her last breath.

"Damnit, Myra, don't you die on me an' all!" he snarled suddenly, glaring at the few clothes she had which were hanging on hooks on the walls. She hardly had anything. In almost six years she had almost nothing of her own; nearly every penny she made, she saved so that Suzannah could go to a good college in the city when she was old enough. It was her dream to see her sister have a great future.

"Don't shout at me, Hank, my head hurts," Myra said tearfully.

Hank spun around, startled. She was awake and looking up at him. As he watched, a tear spilled over and rolled down her face. Her cheeks were pink, he noticed. He walked to the bed and reached down to touch her forehead. It was cool and dry. Her fever had broken.

"Yer better," he said. "Fever's gone."

"My mouth's dry," she said. Hank picked up a cup of water quickly and held it out to her. Then realising she was too weak to take it, slid his arm under her shoulders and propped her up, holding the cup to her lips. She drank every drop and he put the cup aside and lowered her back onto the pillows before he sat down again.

"Is Clarice alright?" she asked then.

Hank just shook his head and looked away from her.

"Oh, Hank."

She didn't say anything else; she just looked up at him as fresh tears filled her eyes and trickled from the corners of them into her hair. He didn't even realise he had joined her until a tear dripped off his chin onto his hand. Then he got up swiftly, scrubbed a hand over his face and left the room.

Clarice was buried the next day. Lissy accompanied Hank to the funeral, but much as Myra wanted to go, she was still too weak to get out of bed. Janie remained at the saloon to look after both Myra and Zack. The little boy hadn't been seen since Janie had taken him into her room, but she reported that he was still healthy although he hid in her closet most of the time.

Hank remained in a daze as the Reverend recited the burial service and uttered not a word until Loren spoke to him afterwards.

"Sorry about your girl," he said. "Jake said there's another one sick too; how's she doin'?"

"Better," Hank grunted.

"That's good. I s'pose ya'll be lookin' for a home for that kid soon, won't ya, now his mother's gone?" Loren went on. "Saloon ain't no place for a child."

"Stay out of it," growled Hank.

"I'm just sayin'," Loren protested. "Ya gotta think about these things."

"Yeah, I do, but you don't. Mind yer own business!" Hank snapped, reaching out to grab Lissy's wrist and jerking her to his side.

"I was only tryin' to help," said Loren.

"Well, don't!" Hank turned in the direction of the saloon and began to stride off, pulling Lissy along with him and forcing her to run to keep up with him.

"Mr Bray's right, ya know, Hank," Lissy said as they reached the saloon. "Ya gotta think about Zack. It's what Clarice wanted; I heard what she said to ya."

Hank slammed the saloon door closed behind them and turned on her.

"This ain't none of yer business!" he hissed.

"Yes, it is, Hank. Who's gonna look after him when we're all workin'? He's five years old, he shouldn't be around what goes on in here."

Hank's hand shot out before he even engaged his brain, hitting Lissy hard across the side of the face with the back of it and knocking her to the ground. Gasping, she looked up at him, but didn't attempt to get to her feet. Hank shoved his hands into his pockets guiltily and took a step backwards.

"I'm gonna let that slide," Lissy said, still kneeling. "Yer upset over Clarice and I guess ya don't need no one tellin' ya what to do with yer own kid. But raise yer hand to me again and I'm outta here, contract or not."

Hank pulled his hands out of his pockets again and dragged them through his hair, sighing heavily. Then he nodded slowly and reached down to help Lissy to her feet. She brushed down her skirts carefully and then went off to check on Myra. Hank snatched a bottle from the bar and retreated to his own room, thinking that he was going to have to get himself together the next day and re-open the saloon to pay for all the stock he was pouring down his own neck.

The following morning, Janie fetched breakfast from Charlotte Cooper. No one had eaten properly in days; Hank and Myra not at all. Hank's first inclination was to refuse the plate of bacon and beans and the thick slice of fresh bread Janie put in front of him, but then he realised he was actually hungry and ate the lot. He couldn't remember the last time he had swallowed anything other than whiskey and coffee and the well-cooked crispy bacon and still warm crusty bread made him feel marginally better.

Later the saloon opened for the first time in over a week and was immediately flooded with customers. Most offered their condolences about Clarice and several squabbled over Lissy who was the only girl working, her face made up more carefully than usual to cover the bruise across her cheekbone left by Hank's hand. Myra stayed behind the bar serving drinks, still weak and having to sit down and rest every so often and Janie remained with Zack, still having over two weeks to go before she could entertain again.

Hank spent most of the evening drinking once again and by the time the saloon closed he was morose and well on the way to being drunk. He left Lissy to lock up and disappeared into his room while the last few customers were still draining their glasses. Half an hour later a light tap came on his door.

"Hank? Y'alright?" It was Myra's voice. He didn't answer. The last thing he wanted to do was talk. He just wanted to finish the bottle which stood beside the bed and then go to sleep.

"Hank?" The door opened a crack and her face appeared. "Can I get ya anythin'?"

"Leave me alone," he grunted.

"Sorry." She withdrew at once.

"Wait!" He called her back. Myra always seemed to understand him and he guessed she'd understand he didn't want to spill his guts, but simply wanted some company. "Come in," he added.

She slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. Hank put the cork back into the bottle and sat down on the bed, patting the mattress beside him. Myra went over and sat down.

"I've been meanin' to say thanks for lookin' after me," she said. "I know it wasn't just Lissy."

"Sshhh." Hank raised his hand and pressed his fingers to her lips. She fell silent at once. "Just stay with me," he said.

Myra didn't say another word; not when he began undressing her, not when he drew her into the bed with him and not even when he took her, using her roughly in his anguish, although he knew he must have hurt her. Even then she stayed silent. She was still fragile from sickness, but her only concern was to help him feel better, selfless as she was. He fell asleep with his arms around her, his face in her hair, breathing in the delicate smell of her fancy soap and feeling momentary peace for the first time since Clarice got sick.

Hank woke the next morning to find Myra still with him, her back turned to him as she lay in his arms. She stirred a moment later and glanced over her shoulder at him.

"'Mornin'," she said. "How are ya?"

"I'll live," he said and grimaced at the unfortunate expression. "What about you?"

"I'm alright. I won't need no more time off."

"I don't want ya workin' for a while," Hank said at once.

"But I'm fine," she protested, turning onto her back and flinching as his arm landed across her breasts. He moved it quickly, wincing at the sight of bruises on them; evidence that he had been more brutal than he realised.

"No, you ain't and that's more my fault than the grip. 'Sides, I want ya with me," he added. "I need ya right now. Yer mine, Myra."

"Alright, Hank, I won't work. Whatever ya say," she told him. She apparently didn't realise entirely what he meant by his last statement and neither at that moment, did he.


	24. Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Myra didn't work for another week, or at least she only worked behind the bar. Each night she went off to bed alone, but Hank either joined her or went to fetch her to his own room. She didn't make much attempt to talk to him about anything important during that time, feeling it better to let him get on and deal with things. Lissy and Janie kept away from him as much as possible, Janie spending most of her time in her room with Zack. No one mentioned the boy to Hank, although Janie did speak to the other two girls about what would be done when her month was up. By silent agreement it was eventually assumed that it would fall to Myra to sort it out, since she appeared to be Hank's favourite and therefore more likely to get a favourable reaction from him.

However, before Myra had chance to decide upon the best way to approach Hank, he was forced to think about the situation. One night when he was playing poker with some of his customers, with Myra serving at the bar and Lissy in her room entertaining, Zack wandered into the bar in his nightshirt. No one noticed at first, the saloon busy and the noise around the poker table deafening, but then suddenly one of the customers spotted the small boy walking around barefoot and pointed him out to his companion. Within minutes, many of the men in the place were looking and whispering.

"Ma? Ma!" Zack was calling as he walked around, looking up in fear at the many large men towering over him.

"Hey, Hank! Yer girl's kid's after a drink," one of the other poker players grinned, glancing behind Hank at Zack.

"What?" Startled, Hank turned around in his chair, just in time to see Zack heading for the swing doors. At that moment Myra darted out from behind the bar and caught him. She grasped his hand, but Zack, apparently alarmed by the crowd, struggled and began screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Ma! _Ma!_ _MAAAAAA!"_

"Ain't gonna find her in here," someone observed. A number of others laughed.

"Whose is she, huh, Hank?" another man asked. "Fella musta had somethin' missin' up here." He pointed one finger at his own head and twirled it around.

"Myra, get him outta here!" growled Hank, getting up from the table. "What the hell is Janie doin'?"

"I don't know, Hank," Myra sighed, struggling to hold onto the wriggling and screaming child.

"Zack!" Janie appeared at that moment. "I musta fallen asleep," she said. "One minute he was there and the next..."

"Get him back to yer room," Hank hissed. "He can't be in here."

"Well, it wouldn't've happened, would it, if ya found a proper home for him," Janie said under her breath and turned her back on him to take Zack from Myra.

"I'll deal with you later," Hank retorted, glowering at her.

"I'll look forward to it; I got somethin' to talk to you about, Hank," said Janie sharply before gathering up the now calm and sniffling Zack in her arms and returning to her room.

"You get back to work an' all, there's plenty of fellas in here wantin' company," Hank said to Myra suddenly.

She looked up at him, her face falling. "But ya said ya didn't want me workin'," she protested.

"Well, ya had long enough slackin', I'm tryin' to make money here!" Hank snapped. "Go on!"

Myra stared at him for another moment and then turned away and headed towards one of the men who wasn't involved in the poker game. Hank returned to the table, but his mind was no longer on his cards and he lost the money he had put into it, causing his temper to mount even further. By the time the saloon closed, he was ready to start a fight with the first person who got in front of him. He avoided Myra and went to Janie's room. She was sitting on the bed sewing something while Zack now slept.

"Come out here," Hank said to her.

Janie put her work down and got up at once, following him out into the bar. Before he had chance to open his mouth, she spoke.

"I ain't doin' this no more, Hank. I'm leavin'," she said. "I ain't a nanny. A real one'd get paid for lookin' after the kid. I'll be able to work again real soon, but I ain't stayin' here to do it. I've had enough."

"_You_ had enough? Everythin' that's happened around here is 'cause of you!" Hank began.

"Well, ya won't have to worry about that no more. I'm goin' tomorrow," retorted Janie.

"What about yer contract? Ya think ya can just walk out? I'll have ya locked up!"

"Maybe ya oughta check the contract, Hank," snapped Janie. "You mighta lost track of time lately, but I ain't. Them contracts were for five years and I'm guessin' we've been here near on six. Which means all of us could leave right now and there ain't a thing ya can do about it."

Hank frowned, thinking about Zack who was past his fifth birthday, remembering that he had taken on Myra and Lissy not that long after Clarice got pregnant and then Janie right after they got to Colorado Springs. Janie was right; it was approaching six years. With everything that had been going on, the time had slipped away from him and he was only surprised that Lissy and Myra hadn't said anything about the contracts. Apparently they hadn't realised either.

"Alright," he said after a moment. "Go if ya want."

Janie's mouth fell open. She had expected him to argue, to lose his temper, tell her she was wrong.

"Oh. Well. I'll leave in the mornin'," she said and walked back to her room, glancing curiously over her shoulder as she went.

Hank leaned against the bar with a sigh. Now it was only a matter of time before Lissy and Myra followed Janie and he was left alone. Alone with a kid he barely knew, who even seemed scared of him. Clarice was probably cursing him, wherever she was. Cursing him for failing her and for failing Zack.

"Hank?"

He raised his eyes to Myra's face. She sure hadn't wasted any time. He could hardly blame her though, especially after tonight.

"You gonna leave me too?" he asked before she could open her mouth.

Myra stared at him. "What d'ya mean?"

"Janie quit," he said, surprised the other girl hadn't told her. "The contracts expired 'bout a year ago. With everythin' that's been goin' on around here, I ain't been keepin' track of time."

"Oh!" Myra's eyes widened.

"So are ya leavin' or not?" He wouldn't be in the least surprised if she said yes and he gritted his teeth as he waited for the answer.

"Hank, I ain't leavin' ya," Myra said after a long pause.

He blinked. "You ain't?"

"No. Where am I gonna go, huh? 'Sides, I need the money. Suzannah'll be ready to go to college in the fall. The Bartons can't afford to send her, but I can so long as I keep on workin'. 'S'what I been savin' for."

"Well, I guess I better get a new contract sorted out then," said Hank.

"Alright."

"What about Lissy? Ya reckon she'll stay or go?"

"I don't know, Hank, but she ain't said nothin' about wantin' to leave."

"I'll take a trip back to Denver, find a couple new girls," said Hank thoughtfully. "This place is gettin' empty."

"What about Zack?"

Hank sighed heavily. "Ya think the same as Janie?"

She nodded. "We all do. It ain't no life for him here, Hank. He's scared of all the noise and strange fellas."

"Includin' me," put in Hank sadly.

"He keeps wantin' to go back to Clarice's room, like he thinks she's still in there. He don't understand. It'd be better for him away from here. Older he gets, more difficult it's gonna be to keep him from wanderin' off. He needs to be with somebody who can look after him proper."

"I know that," Hank said quietly. "I guess I wanted him to stay here 'cause he's part of Clarice. But what good am I to him, huh? I ain't no father to him. Kid don't even know who I am. Last thing Clarice said was that she wanted me to find a good home for him. I wasn't much good to her when she was here and I'm still failin' her now she's gone."

"Hank, ya can put that right," Myra said, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "We'll find somewhere he can be happy."

He nodded slowly. "Got any ideas?"

"No, but I'll ask around. If ya want me to."

Hank nodded again. Myra left him and went to her room and after a moment he went to see Lissy. Better to get everything sorted out in one go. He opened the door and found her in her nightgown, about to get into bed.

"I ain't leavin'," she said before he could open his mouth. "Janie told me she's goin' in the mornin'. I guessed the contracts ran out too, but I figured it's more trouble than it's worth goin' lookin' for another job. Unless yer gonna fire me."

Hank shook his head. "Myra's stayin' too. I'll get some new contracts done."

"Sure." Lissy nodded. "What about Zack?"

"Myra's gonna find someone to take him."

"I'm glad," said Lissy.

Hank left her and went back to his room. He didn't feel like sleeping and for once he didn't want to drink himself into oblivion either. He pulled out the box with the old contracts in it, tore up Janie's and then found paper and pen and began to laboriously copy out the other two. When he came to Myra's he found himself hesitating before he wrote 'five years'. He'd already lost everybody he ever cared about and although he couldn't say he loved Myra - he doubted he'd ever love anybody again - he did feel something for her and he didn't want to think about her walking out in five years time when she didn't need to pay for Suzannah's education any more. She was the only one who ever seemed to understand him; the only one who made him feel better about himself. He chewed the end of the pen and considered adding on a few more years. She hadn't even noticed her contract expired a year before and he doubted she'd count off the days of the new one. In addition she couldn't read so whatever he put, she'd probably never know. He wrote 'seven years' and finished with his signature.

In the morning, Janie left right after breakfast and Lissy and Myra signed their new contracts with a cross. Neither one asked how long they were for and obviously assumed they were identical to the originals. He placed the documents in the box and returned it to the cupboard beneath the bar.

Myra went out shortly after and was gone for most of the morning. When she returned, she had some news.

"Hank, ya remember that fella, Murphy? The one who had this place before?"

"Yeah."

"Well, he died a few weeks back."

"Am I supposed to fetch him flowers or somethin'?" Hank said drily.

"Of course not. He had two girls, Ruby and...Mary or Marie? Anyhow, Ruby stayed with him after they left here, in some little cabin outta town."

"Is there a point to this?" asked Hank impatiently.

"I'm gettin' to it. Ruby was in Mr Bray's store this mornin'. He's refusin' her credit now Murphy's gone, 'cause he thinks he ain't gonna get paid. She's on her own. I was thinkin', maybe she'd take Zack."

"Another whore?" Hank frowned.

"She ain't one now. She's gettin' on for fifty, I'd say. Maybe she'd be glad to do it, if ya paid her. She might like the company and she'd certainly like the money."

"I dunno," Hank said doubtfully. "Ya know anythin' about her?"

"No, but Mr Bray probably does. And Jake. They've been here a lot longer than us."

"Alright. Thanks, Myra."

Hank spent the rest of the day and night thinking about it. That evening, with Janie gone, Zack once again appeared in the bar and Myra was forced to stop working and keep him away from the customers. As it was, many of the men began gossiping about the weird whore's kid and muttering that he oughtn't to be living in the saloon. Then when the bar closed, Loren and Jake stayed behind.

"Hank, we want to have a word with ya," Loren said, looking a touch nervous.

"Yeah, it's about that kid," added Jake, taking a couple of steps away and putting a table between himself and Hank. "Ya know, ya oughta think about..."

"You two inteferin' again?" interrupted Hank.

"Now, Hank, it ain't right," Loren began again. "He shouldn't be seein' the things that go on here. Not to mention that he makes folks uncomfortable."

"I'm lookin' for someone to take care of him," said Hank. "Someone outta town. Myra mentioned this woman, Ruby."

"Ruby Johnson? Murphy's old whore?" said Jake.

"Yeah. What's she like?"

"Weeellllll," Loren said doubtfully. "She's alright, I 's'pose, far as whores go. It may be that she's lonely since Murphy passed on. Might be happy to have the kid. She's a tough old bird; she'd cope alright, I'm guessin'."

"Could work out," added Jake. "His ma was a whore after all, he'd feel right at home. What d'you care about where he goes anyhow, Hank?"

Hank scowled, but said nothing.

"Well, we'll be goin'," Loren said at this point. "Come on, Jake."

The pair made their way to the door quickly and Hank remained in the bar for a while, considering what they and Myra had told him. Maybe it would be best all round and it would certainly be better for Zack to have a proper home.

The next day he called on Jake briefly to find out where Ruby's cabin was and then rode out to it, taking with him a package of supplies he bought from Loren. The woman was out in front of the cabin when he arrived, pulling up potatoes which appeared to be the only crop she had grown. She looked up curiously as he dismounted.

"Ruby Johnson?"

"Yes. Yer that fella who took over the saloon from Murphy," she said.

"Ya remember me?"

"Sure. I never forget a face. Ain't so good with names, though."

"I'm Hank Lawson. I got somethin' for ya. Heard Loren's refusin' ya credit." He handed over the package of food.

"Why would ya do this for me?" she asked.

"I'm hopin' ya'll do somethin' for me in return. I'm willin' to pay too."

Ruby listened in silence as he told her about Zack and his mother's death.

"Saloon ain't no place for a little boy," Ruby agreed. "Guess I'd like the company out here. Gets pretty lonely at times. What're ya payin'?"

"Five dollars a week," Hank said. "A month at a time in advance."

"That's a lotta money. He mean somethin' to ya?" Ruby's brow wrinkled.

"I promised his ma. The money'll feed the both of ya and get him clothes and things. Whatever he needs. If it turns out not to be enough, I'll increase it later."

Ruby nodded. "Sounds like a fair arrangement. When d'ya want to bring him?"

"Later today?"

"Alright."

Hank nodded and pulled twenty dollars out of his pocket. "This is for the first month. I'll send one of the girls over in the future."

Ruby took the money and Hank swung up onto his horse and galloped away towards town, hoping he had made the right decision.


	25. Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

That afternoon while the saloon was still quiet, Hank hitched up the wagon ready to take Zack out to Ruby's cabin. He left Lissy to serve drinks in the bar and took Myra with him to take care of Zack in the back of the wagon until they got there. As he encouraged the horse into a brisk trot, he noticed a number of people watching their departure - Loren and Maude along with Loren's sister, Olive, who was visiting town; Jake, the Reverend and the idiot postmaster, Horace, who was later to become the bane of Hank's life, only he didn't know it yet. Hank ignored them all and stared only at the horse as they travelled out of sight of the townsfolk. In the back of the wagon, Myra held on tightly to Zack lest he try to stand up, but he remained still and silent, staring about him curiously at the passing scenery on the journey.

Ruby appeared the moment the wagon pulled up in her yard and waited while Hank jumped down from the driving seat and lifted Myra and Zack out of the back. Then she walked towards them.

"This is him?"

Hank nodded.

"Zack, this is Miss Ruby," Myra said, ushering the boy towards the older woman. "Yer gonna stay here with her in this nice cabin."

"Fine lookin' little fella," Ruby commented. "Don't worry, he'll be safe out here. I'll take good care of him."

Hank nodded again, still saying nothing.

"He likes drawin'" Myra said then, passing a napsack to Ruby. "Well, he just scribbles yet, but it keeps him busy for hours. This is paper and pencils for him. Zack, you be a good boy for Miss Ruby. I'll be seein' ya."

Zack stared up at her, but didn't speak and Hank turned abruptly and returned to the wagon, waiting for Myra so he could lift her up onto the seat before climbing up himself. Ruby grasped Zack's hand now and the pair watched as Hank turned the horse away from the cabin. He was silent and grim-faced as he drove, his elbows resting on his knees.

"Y'alright?" Myra asked him.

"Yeah," he grunted, but when Myra slid closer to him on the seat and rested her hand on his leg, he straightened up, shifted the reins to one hand and wrapped his arm around her, holding on tight to her as they returned to town.

For the rest of the day Hank remained behind the bar, often matching his whiskey orders with a glass for himself until by the end of the night he was unsteady on his feet and glowering in silent bad-temper. When the last customer left the saloon he retired to his room alone and passed out fully clothed on his bed, grateful for the oblivion alcohol brought which stopped him thinking about his son, being raised by a stranger miles out of town. It was for the best, he knew, but he still felt like he had failed the boy and didn't want to be repeatedly tortured by such thoughts. However, when he woke with a persistent headache those feelings were still there and he knew there was no getting away from them. He was just going to have to live with it and get on with things.

"Myra!" He banged loudly on her door and a moment later she opened it slowly, dressed in a pink nightgown and rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Y'alright, Hank?" she yawned.

"I'm goin' to Denver," he said.

"Now?"

"Yeah, I'm takin' the stage. I want you and Lissy to keep an eye on things for a couple days while I'm gone." He paused for a moment. "There's somethin' else I want ya to do for me."

"Sure, Hank."

"Clear out Clarice's room. It's still full of her things."

"What d'ya want me to do with them?" asked Myra.

"Whatever ya want. Give 'em away, burn 'em, I don't care. I just want them gone."

"Of course. I'll get to it this mornin'," Myra said at once.

Hank nodded and turned away. He was already wearing one of his suits and now he grabbed the coat and a hat from his room and collected the carpet bag he had already packed with a change of clothes. An hour later he was on the stagecoach to Denver, relieved to find that the three other travellers were men who wanted to play poker to pass the time. It was a friendly game with stakes starting at only a quarter, but Hank didn't care about the money. The game kept his mind occupied and that was worth more than a handful of bills.

In Denver, Hank first booked three tickets on the stagecoach in two days' time to return to Colorado Springs, confident he would find two girls to use the spare tickets, then took a room in a hotel on the same street as the old tailors he had always bought his clothes from. He called in there, deciding to see if the two old men were still running the place, but a younger fellow was behind the counter now.

"Yer new here," Hank observed.

"I took over two years ago, when the previous proprietors retired," he said. "May I be of service, sir?"

Hank hesitated. He hadn't been intending to buy new clothes for himself, but he did need a couple of shirts. He left an hour later with a new suit, shirts, neckties, boots and a hat, wrily thinking that he now needed another piece of luggage too.

"Ya sell bags?" he asked.

"Bags? You mean luggage, sir?"

"Yeah."

"No, sir, but you may find something to your liking next door. A friend of mine runs the store there. He carries luggage and such."

"Thanks." Hank went next door, bought another bag and then returned to the hotel to leave the things in his room. Then he set off to find what he had really come to Denver for.

By the end of the day he'd had no luck finding any suitable girls and decided to return to the hotel for dinner and try again in the morning. He strode briskly along the street, glancing right and left. Denver sure had changed in the last few years. Everything seemed even bigger and smarter than it had before, but then again that might just because he had grown used to Colorado Springs, with its small spread out buildings, dirt streets and roughly clad residents.

He halted abruptly, almost colliding with a man who had stepped out of a nearby store. The man stared back at him, his brow furrowing and his eyes suddenly showing recognition. Hank met blue eyes the same shade as his own, noticing the neatly cropped blond hair beneath a tall hat, impeccable crisp shirt and suit. He must be thirty now.

"Hans." The chin lifted slightly; that same gesture he and his twin had always used to give them the impression of looking down their noses.

"Lars," Hank said stiffly.

"I thought you had left Denver."

"I'm visitin'."

"I wasn't aware you had any friends left here," Lars said. "Unless, of course, you mean prostitutes." He uttered this last word under his breath.

"Ya know nothin' about me," grunted Hank. "Ya never did."

"I know you became tangled up in some gambling debacle which resulted in a woman being shot."

Hank glowered. "That was a long time ago."

"Mud sticks, Hans," said Lars. "You should remember that."

"What I remember, is you and Leif suckin' up to Father when neither of ya really knew who he was," Hank said quietly. "Maybe y'oughta ask him how he knew Lillian Jenkins."

"What are you talking about?" Lars said, eyes narrowing.

"Yer precious Father ain't all he seemed to be," Hank said. "I have business to see to."

He stepped around Lars and returned to the hotel, thinking that his brother hadn't changed one bit, except perhaps to become even more like their father with his damned superior attitude, thinking he was better than Hank. He didn't doubt Lars was a lawyer now, the way he always planned to be, probably working in their father's practise and lauding it over everyone. He made his way to his room and slammed the door angrily. He was glad he didn't live in Denver any more. They had nothing to do with him now, but somehow they still managed to make him feel worthless.

The next morning Hank ate breakfast in the hotel, but later headed for the cafe he used to go to with Clarice and Myra. It was one thing that hadn't altered. The same woman ran it, scurrying between the old picnic tables to serve the customers. Hank spotted two girls sitting at one table - both dark-haired and dressed as if they'd stepped out of Red Burrows' saloon. Grinning, he made his way over to them.

"Mornin', ladies," he said. "Mind if I join ya?"

They looked up and giggled.

"Have a seat," one said. "We were just sayin' we could do with a fine handsome gentleman to join us for coffee."

Hank smiled and sat down opposite the pair. He paid for the coffees and asked a few questions. Melinda and Dotty worked for Red Burrows and had been there approaching two years. He paid the same as Hank did, but still hadn't bothered to have contracts drawn up. When the girls discovered Hank owned a saloon too and was looking to employ some entertainment, the pair were quick to point out that they'd be happy to leave Denver.

"Ain't much to keep us here," Dotty said. "'Sides, Red Burrows ain't got your looks. Be nice to have a handsome fella like you for a boss."

Hank chuckled. "I'm leavin' tomorrow," he said. "Ya can both come with me if ya want. I got tickets for the stage."

"We'll look forward to it," said Melinda and Dotty nodded in agreement.

Hank left them to it with instructions that they meet him at the stagecoach at nine the next morning, then walked off, an idea coming to mind that he had thought of off and on for a while. He paused outside a dress shop, looking in the window at the outfits on display there and having no clue as to how to go about buying such a thing. He spotted two women inside, both in the process of arranging other items on display and he guessed they worked there and so would be able to offer help. He pushed the door open and stepped into the store.

"Good morning, sir, may I be of assistance?" the elder of the two asked immediately, putting down the gloves she was laying out.

"I wanna buy a dress," Hank said. "Not for me, obviously."

Both women immediately suppressed giggles, which was encouraging. They were on side from the outset.

"Do you have any idea of the correct size?" asked the younger woman.

He glanced at her, noticing she was very small and very slim, with a dainty yet perfect figure. Her head reached to just below his shoulder and he imagined his hands would just about meet around her waist. She blushed prettily under his intent gaze.

"'Bout your size," he said. "Nothin' too fussy, ya know, we live outta town. Ain't a place for city clothes."

"What about colour?" asked the other.

"Umm..." He had no clue. She had hardly anything to wear and what she did have was mostly nondescript sort of colours.

"Well, what colour is she? I mean, her hair and her eyes," the lady prompted.

"Brown hair, sorta green eyes." Who'd have thought buying a woman's dress would be so involved? Then he remembered the nightgown Myra had been wearing right before he left. That was the one thing she had treated herself to not too long ago and he guessed since she spent her hard-earned money on it, she must have chosen what pleased her the most. "Pink," he blurted out. "I mean, I think she likes pink."

The older lady's eyes twinkled. "Ahh, we have just the thing. Special gift, is it?"

"I guess."

"Sarah, bring that dress we took off the display yesterday," she instructed the girl. "Fashions change so quickly here in Denver, but in the country...well, I'm guessing your young lady would be delighted with it."

Hank stared as a dress was laid out on the counter in front of him. It was a subtle shade of pink, the sort of colour Myra's face went if he made fun of her. It had little short puffy sleeves and a full skirt with fancy stitching of some kind on the bodice, but it wasn't what would be considered out of place in Colorado Springs. Some of the women there wore more elaborate outfits on occasion, such as for Thanksgiving or Christmas or the Sweetheart Dance.

"How much is it?" he asked.

The lady discreetly showed him the price tag, rather than voice it. Hank's eyebrows shot up. Fifteen dollars for a frock? Hell!

"I'll take it," he said as calmly as he could manage.

He guessed she deserved it. How would he ever have coped with everything over the last few years, and particularly in the last few weeks, without her? He paid for the dress and the young woman called Sarah packed it carefully into a flat box and wrapped it in brown paper. Hank took it back to the hotel and then spent the remainder of the day wondering if he ought to have bought her something like a pair of boots or a shawl. A dress was too much; she might read too much into it, think he cared for her. Or maybe it was just him reading too much into it. He sighed heavily. Hell, it was only a dress, it didn't mean anything. It was simply an item she was desperately in need of.

The girls were already waiting for the stagecoach, each with a small bag of belongings when Hank arrived just before nine. When the stage pulled up, he took their bags and tossed them up onto the roof for the driver to strap down, along with his own luggage, then helped the two girls into the vehicle. The other three travellers - a middle-aged couple with a young son - were less than pleased when they discovered their travelling companions included two obvious saloon women and huddled together uncomfortably on the other seat as Hank sat between the two girls, each one flirting with him and whispering in his ears every so often.

The stagecoach finally rolled into Colorado Springs on Saturday morning and immediately a number of the townsfolk flocked around it as usual, everyone keen to see who was arriving and whether any parcels had been delivered for them.

Hank jumped down and rescued the four bags and the dress box from the roof, while the two giggling girls climbed down to the street, holding their skirts up around their knees to save them from the mud and giving Jake and Loren and many others a good view of their calves. Hank passed them their bags and then led them across to the saloon, grinning at Jake who was showing obvious interest in both. He didn't think it would be long before the barber came by and handed over another five dollars, if he could choose between them of course.

Hank introduced the two new girls to Lissy and Myra, then sent Lissy to show them their rooms, while he grasped Myra by the arm and drew her along to her own room. He closed the door after them and put the box onto her bed.

"So what's been goin' on here?" he asked. "Did ya miss me?"

"Nothin' excitin' and yes, I did," Myra said, answering both questions at once. "How was Denver?"

"I'll tell ya later. I got somethin' for ya," he told her, indicating the box.

"For me?" Her mouth fell open.

"Yeah. It's a present." He wondered again what on earth had possessed him to buy her a dress. She probably wouldn't even like it.

"Ohh!" She continued to stare at him in astonishment.

"Ya gonna open it, then?" he prompted.

Myra carefully untied the string holding the brown paper on and then lifted the lid off the box. Layers of thin paper covered the dress and she pulled these aside and drew out the garment, holding it up by the shoulders.

"Oh, Hank!" she gasped. "It's beautiful! It's..." She turned to look at him, her cheeks the same colour as the gown. "It's really for me?"

Hank grinned a trifle self-consciously. "Sure. I just happened to see it. Figured ya might like it. You ain't got many things to wear," he said, trying to make light of the gesture. His bluster was lost on Myra, who was clearly overwhelmed.

"Oh, Hank!" she said again. "Thank you!"

"Well...glad ya like it." He nodded and backed out of the room, only allowing his face to stretch into a foolish grin after he had closed the door.


	26. Chapter 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

By the time the saloon got busy that evening, Hank had already made up contracts for Melinda and Dotty and the pair started work right away. Both proved extremely popular with the customers from the beginning and Jake was first in line for Melinda. The saloon was crowded with it being a Saturday and Lissy also found herself busier than usual. Myra served behind the bar for a time with Hank, until someone requested her company.

"She's tied up," grunted Hank. "Wait for one of the new girls."

"I like the look of her best."

"Too bad. Like I said, she ain't available," Hank repeated, eyeing Myra who was pouring out another shot of whiskey for Loren.

He wanted her for himself that night and had no intention of letting anyone else get their hands on her. When she finished serving and leaned on the bar, he reached out, grasped her wrist and drew her towards him, manoeuvring her in front of him and resting his hands on the counter either side of her. After a moment he put his hands on her instead, laying them on her shoulders, stroking the sides of her neck with his thumbs. She leaned back against him, moving only to pour out more drinks when requested.

"Huh, keepin' her for yerself, are ya?" the customer Hank had refused now grinned at him.

Hank cocked one eyebrow and sneered slightly, then reached around Myra to pour himself a drink, tossing it down his throat in one gulp. It was going to be a long night.

He kept Myra by him until most of the customers had filtered out into the night and then sent her to her room. Eventually the last few drinkers staggered out and he locked up. The other girls had already retired and he made his way to Myra's room, opening the door quietly without knocking. He found her wearing the new dress, turning around and around in front of her mirror admiring it.

"Looks good on ya," he said as she faced him, reddening slightly.

The dress fitted her perfectly, tight around her tiny waist, the bodice pushing her breasts upwards and showing the smallest hint of cleavage.

"I love it," Myra said. "I never had anythin' like this before."

Hank grinned and pulled her towards him. "Almost seems a shame to take it off."

He slid his arms around her and began unfastening the dozen fiddly little buttons on the back of the bodice. Not only were these fancy dresses damned expensive, but they made them impossible to get into. It took him several minutes to undo all the buttons and then Myra slipped the dress off and carefully placed it in the box. Hank scooped her up into his arms immediately and dropped her into the middle of the bed, wasting no time in ripping off his own clothes and carelessly scattering a few buttons from his shirt before he joined her.

It was almost dawn before they slept, arms and legs thrown loosely across each other, the sheet tangled in a heap and trailing on the floor.

When Hank opened his eyes Myra was still sleeping in his arms and he propped his head up with one hand and stared at her, thinking about the previous night and then back over the past few years since he first met her. She was the only person who had never let him down; always there when he needed her, always welcoming and warm when he took her to bed, always sweet and soft and gentle and caring. She did whatever he asked of her and the way she sometimes looked at him, like when he gave her the dress, he could almost believe if he were to rip up her contract and tell her he wanted her just for himself, she'd be happy about it.

He rolled away from her with a sigh, got up quietly and pulled his clothes on. He'd been so lonely without Clarice. In fact he had been lonely when he was _with_ Clarice, the way she'd treated him most of the time, her moods so erratic. He had never known where he was with her, even when they were properly together. Myra was so completely different. What you saw was what you got.

He paused by the door and looked down at her again, still sleeping and with a slight smile on her lips. It would be so easy to fall for her, but then what? Things would change; they'd fight, she'd resent him, she'd start rejecting him in favour of fat old men who paid her. She was a whore just like Clarice and she'd always be one. He shoved the fleeting thought that she was only a whore because he'd made her one to the back of his mind. He slipped out of the room now and went into the bar, pouring himself a drink just as Lissy appeared.

"Mornin', Hank," she said, smiling and winking. "Have a good night?"

"Leave me alone," he growled, dropping onto a chair and placing both glass and bottle on the table. He lit up a cigar and went back to thinking.

Was it worth the risk? He'd already acknowledged Myra was nothing like Clarice, but that didn't mean she wouldn't change, get tired of him, long for something more. It was better the way it was. While she had a contract, she was his and she'd do as he wanted; he could just be with her when he felt like it, as often as that might be. There would be no complications, no feelings involved, no heartache when it went wrong.

"Hank?"

He looked up. She'd put on the pink nightgown and her hair was all tangled, her cheeks flushed. He pictured himself pulling her down onto his lap to kiss her and then quickly pushed the thought aside. Hadn't he just agreed it would be a bad idea?

"Ya better get dressed, there's clearin' up to do in here and the fellas'll all be headin' over after the picnic," he said gruffly.

"Sure. Alright." She backed away a few steps and then turned and went back to her room.

Hank drained his glass and went to his room to change, ruefully tossing his ruined shirt with its missing buttons to the floor in the corner of the room. It was a good thing he'd bought some new ones in Denver.

Sunday passed quietly, with less than half the number of customers than had been in on Saturday. The girls circulated the room, flirting and chatting, idling away the time. The man from the previous evening approached the bar and ordered a whiskey. He'd taken Melinda in the end, but it looked like he was back for more.

"Any of 'em busy tonight?" he asked with a grin.

"Nah. Take yer pick," drawled Hank.

"What about her? Ya musta been keepin' her for yerself for a reason," the man said, indicating Myra.

"Why don't ya see for yerself?" Hank deftly swiped the five dollars from the customer's fingers and pocketed it.

"Might just do that." The fellow drained his glass, walked across to Myra and grasped her arm.

Hank watched as they disappeared in the direction of her room, then stepped around the bar, pulling out a pack of cards.

"Any of you fellas want a game?" he offered.

There were four takers and he took a seat at the poker table, set a bottle in the middle of it and began to shuffle. He wouldn't even give Myra another thought.

Mostly it worked, convincing himself that she was his because of the contract. As time went on, he buried his head in the sand and didn't question why he never slept with the other three girls; why it was always Myra he took with him if there was something on which required his attendance such as the Thanksgiving dinner or the Christmas gathering or the Fourth of July celebrations. He even told himself that she needed the other dresses and shoes he bought her so as she wouldn't have to always be wearing the same thing, making him look like a miser when he took her somewhere on his arm.

It was always Myra who rode out to Ruby Johnson's place each month to pay her, because he trusted her not to steal the money and the horse and knew she would come back and tell him how Zack was getting on. It was always Myra whom he leapt over the counter to defend from rough customers in an instant, rather than wait to see if she could handle it or not as he did with the other girls.

It wasn't until three years later that he was forced to acknowledge he'd been fooling himself. Suzannah, who had been attending a fine college in St Louis, had graduated and then written to the Bartons to tell them she was getting married. George Barton called in at the saloon to tell Myra and later, she asked Hank for time off to take the stagecoach to St Louis for the wedding. He hesitated before answering and rather than wait for him to speak, she begged.

"Please, Hank. I haven't seen her in over a year since she last visited. I really want to be there for her. Please let me go."

"Sure, of course," he said at once. "I'll get yer ticket."

"Ya don't have to do that," Myra protested.

He shrugged. "Might as well save yer money."

She left on the stage twelve days before the wedding, to allow sufficient time to reach St Louis, which was over eight hundred miles away, and then help her sister prepare over the last day or two before her big day.

Hank found himself behaving like a bear with a sore head while she was gone. He drank, he barked at the other girls, he dished out several black eyes and split lips to customers who barely did more than look at him wrong and he tossed and turned in bed every night, convinced she wouldn't come back.

St Louis was a big city, full of opportunities for anyone who was looking for them. What if she found something, or _someone_ that suited her better? Suzannah could introduce her to all kinds of people; rich men who didn't know what she did for a living. Men who might offer her a better life - marriage, children, a nice home. Hank had no idea if marriage and children was something Myra might dream of having some day, but he figured she'd think it a better option than entertaining half the men of Colorado Springs.

The wedding was to take place on the Sunday and Myra's plan was to take the stage out of St Louis the following day, due to arrive back in Colorado Springs the next Tuesday. Hank had no way of knowing if she'd got on it or not and constantly cursed himself for making such a big deal out of it. If she didn't come back, she didn't come back; he couldn't do much about it other than go to St Louis and drag her home with him.

The days crawled by and eventually Tuesday arrived and with it, heavy rain. Myra had been away three weeks in all and Hank was sick of telling curious customers where she was. The most common response to him telling them that she had gone to her sister's wedding in St Louis was, 'Are ya sure she ain't run off to get married herself?'

Hank stood outside the saloon smoking a cigar and watching the rain bucketing down, the street outside rapidly turning to a sea of mud. The hours passed and the saloon opened, although few people ventured out into the storm for a drink. There was no sign of the stagecoach which should have arrived in the late morning and Hank began to think it must have holed up somewhere to wait out the bad weather. Sometimes part of the route was washed away in heavy rain, making it impassable for the coach.

However, somehow the vehicle made it through. Just before six o'clock the team of horses came stamping and splashing through the mud, the drivers wearing wide-brimmed hats and holding a tarp draped around them to keep the worst of the wet off.

"Hey, Hank!" Jake exclaimed from where he sat drinking by the window. "Stage is in. Ain't Myra comin' back today?"

"Yeah," Hank grunted.

"What's the matter? Don't ya want her back, or somethin'? Send her my way if ya like." Jake grinned at Hank's sour expression.

Hank scowled and strode towards the door, disconcerted and annoyed by the way his heart had leapt into his mouth when the stage pulled up. So much for keeping his feelings out of it.

He shoved the swing doors open and stepped out onto the porch. One of the drivers was passing luggage down from the roof of the coach to a male passenger who had already alighted. Two other men climbed out now, immediately sinking ankle deep in mud and becoming drenched in seconds. Myra peered out of the window, looking down at the muddy street in dismay.

Hank stepped off the porch into the rain and squelched across to the stage, snatching Myra's bag from one of the men a second before he dropped it into the sludge.

"Hank!" Myra edged to the open door and onto the top step, holding up the moss green dress she was wearing - one of those he had bought her.

"Here." He thrust the bag into her hands and plucked her out of the vehicle, holding her up as high as he could manage to prevent her skirt trailing around his legs and getting dirt on it. She hung onto the bag with one arm and his neck with the other, squealing as he ploughed through the mud to the saloon porch, the pair of them no less wet when they reached it than if they had been plunged into a water trough.

Hank lowered her to her feet on the porch and took a step back.

"Thanks!" she gasped. "I thought we'd never make it. They were gonna wait it out at the last stage, but two of the fellas travellin' were in a rush and paid 'em extra."

Hank grinned now and ushered her into the saloon. "Go get some dry things on before ya catch the grip again," he said and then followed her through the bar, thinking it wise to get a change of clothes himself.

"How was the weddin'?" he asked before heading into his room.

"It was lovely. Suzannah met a wonderful man; he's a banker. They have a beautiful house too."

"Sounds like ya wish you were gonna live there," Hank said. "I thought maybe ya wouldn't wanna come back."

"My home's here," said Myra. "Of course I wanted to come back."

"I missed ya," Hank confessed.

Myra smiled, stood on tiptoe and gave him a light kiss on the cheek, then hurried, shivering into her room. Hank heaved a sigh of relief. She was back. He guessed he could live with having feelings for her, he just wasn't about to go blurting them out to her; that would just be asking for trouble.


	27. Chapter 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

After Myra's return from St Louis, things seemed to go back to normal for a time at least in the saloon, although there were plenty of changes in Colorado Springs.

A fair amount of new families moved to town and houses and businesses began springing up all over. It suited Hank well enough because most of the men spent plenty of evenings drinking his whiskey, losing their money to him at poker and spending what they had left on the girls.

Lissy finally had enough of the saloon and left one Christmas, having refused a particularly unsavoury customer and earned a second slap from Hank. She reminded him what she said the first time he hit her, then packed her bags and walked out the door. Hank didn't bother chasing after her; he had noticed her contract was close to ending and didn't want to make a fuss about it and alert Myra to the fact that hers should have been coming to an end, but in fact wasn't even close. Things were pretty good between them mostly, although she hadn't been quite the same after she'd been to Suzannah's wedding. Myra often had a sort of wistful look about her and Hank wondered off and on if she was hoping for something more from her life. He never asked her however, reluctant to hear her speak of hopes and dreams away from the saloon; away from him.

Loren's beloved daughter, Abigail, had married the Indian-loving miner, Sully who had turned up in Colorado Springs, much to Loren's horror and the old man spent many nights in the saloon, drinking and moaning to Hank and Jake. He never let up on the subject. He'd wanted Abigail to go off to a fine school and marry someone rich like Suzannah had, but she wasn't having any of it and fell for Sully hook, line and sinker. She was as stubborn as Loren himself and her father's protests about her choice of suitor had simply pushed her further into the man's arms. However, worse was to come when she died in childbirth along with their baby girl. Both Sully and Loren were devastated, only Loren dowsed himself in whiskey to blot out the pain and Sully ran off to join the army, following which it was heard that he had deserted and gone to live with the Indians. Loren was relieved that for a time at least he didn't have to look upon the man that took his daughter away from him and was indirectly responsible for her death.

The Cooper family had swelled by two – a girl and a boy – and then Ethan Cooper, whose mine was failing, stole his wife's money and ran off leaving her penniless, with three children. It was only the thriving business of the boarding house which kept them from starving, and the help of a few generous townsfolk whose children Charlotte had helped bring into the world.

Then towards the end of the summer of 1867, the Reverend announced that the town was to get a doctor after years of struggling without one or waiting for one to come from Manitou or occasionally Denver when needed. Apparently one Michael Quinn from Boston was crazy enough to want to set up his practise on the frontier. Most people bet the city man wouldn't last through the first winter, but were eager to welcome him with open arms none the less. He arrived eventually on the stagecoach and the minute the saloon opened, Loren and Jake stampeded in with the news.

"It's a _woman_!" Jake exclaimed.

"Huh?" Hank yawned, not long out of bed.

"The new doctor," Loren said. "Some mistake with the telegram apparently, Horace didn't write the name down properly."

"Figures," grunted Hank. He had no liking for the telegraph operator at all; poor excuse for a man he was, all lanky and lop-sided looking, frightened of his own shadow and had probably never so much as kissed a woman, even though he was in his late twenties. He didn't drink, smoke or chase women and therefore never set foot in the saloon and seem convinced that the oath he had taken to protect folks' mail and telegram messages was the most important thing in his life.

"Fact is, the Reverend thought we were gettin' a doctor called Michael Quinn, but it's _Michaela_. A woman," continued Loren.

Hank chortled now. "Whoever heard of a woman doctor? What's she look like?"

"See for yerself," Jake said, indicating the window. Outside, a pretty woman of similar age to Hank and Jake could be seen hurrying along with the Reverend in the direction of Charlotte Cooper's boarding house, her fancy lavender costume splattered heavily with mud.

"Looks like she took a spill already," Loren sniggered.

Hank cocked one eyebrow and smirked. "Fancy havin' her fix you up, Loren?"

Loren shuddered. "I'm stickin' with Jake; I ain't havin' a woman pokin' at me. I'm guessin' most of the folks 'round here'll feel the same."

"Well, I'd be happy to have her care for me if I'm sick," Myra said at that point. "Least she's a proper doctor."

"So she says," Loren said.

"She'll cost money, Myra," muttered Hank. "More than two bits anyhow." Two bits was Jake's rate for everything, whether it was a haircut, a shave, a few stitches or a pulled tooth.

Myra walked off and left the three men speculating about the female doctor's capabilities, which they continued with for some time once a number of customers came into the bar and joined in the discussion. It seemed no one was keen on the idea of a woman physician and a number of them reassured Jake that he wouldn't be losing their business.

Dr Michaela Quinn spent a few days at the boarding house until Sully reappeared from wherever he'd been hiding and rented his homestead to her; then she moved out there with the help of the Coopers and tried her hand at doctoring. As predicted, most people shunned her until she had Jake pull a perfectly good tooth out of her head; the barber couldn't help being impressed and let her fix an infected cut on his hand, then persuaded Robert E to let her look at his creaky joints.

Much to Hank's irritation, she even visited the saloon to look at Myra which resulted in him becoming angry with Myra too, when he discovered the reason. She'd caught the same disease that Janie had and would have to remain 'chaste' as the doctor put it, for a month. Hank was more bothered about the fact that Myra was unclean and that he would have to keep away from her himself, than the prospective loss of money while she couldn't work and yelled at both her and Dr Mike - Michaela - bringing one to tears and causing the other to haughtily storm out of the bar. It took a week for his fury over Myra's carelessness to subside and she spent most of that time keeping out of his way.

Hank was unsure what to make of Michaela. She was a good-looking woman with a shapely figure and pretty hair, but she seemed a bit of a know-it-all who liked the sound of her own voice and he knew she looked down her nose at him, just like his own family had. She came from a rich family and had read a lot of books so she thought she was better than him. He was as determined as Loren that he would stick with Jake for any ailments he might suffer and not let her near him and this opinion only increased after poor Loren, still mourning his daughter, lost Maude too while the woman was under the care of Michaela for what the doctor advised was a bad heart. Loren was understandably devastated, but rather than continue spending most nights in the saloon drowning his sorrows, he took to spending hours at the graveyard instead, sadly talking to Abigail and Maude and avoiding even Jake and Hank who were usually his best confidantes.

Hank decided that Michaela couldn't be much of a doctor to have given Maude medicine that killed her, and in addition poor Charlotte Cooper had died of a rattlesnake bite and she hadn't been able to fix that either. The woman had only been in town five minutes and two people had already died on her, the latter leaving her three children to the doctor to care for, which mystified most of the town. However, it did seem that Myra was getting better after Michaela's treatment so she couldn't be all bad. Hank still had no intention of going to her himself, but not too long after he was forced to seek her help after all and subsequently revised his opinion, at least a little. However, right before that he almost died and it was nothing to do with needing a doctor.

Late November he decided to take a trip to Manitou to trade furs from the animals he'd trapped in the woods, something he had taken to doing every few weeks to add to the growing tin box of money hidden under his bed. Furs didn't fetch in a lot of money, not the small stuff anyway, but what he got for them was worth having. He sometimes used it to order in fabrics for the girls to make dresses, since Melinda had turned out to be a reasonable seamstress. Some of their outfits had begun to look tatty recently and fabric was a lot cheaper than made up dresses.

Now he loaded up the mule outside the saloon and then strolled over to Loren's to help himself to a couple of apples. Since Charlotte died there had been no food available to collect any more and those who didn't cook, or didn't have the facilities, bought cold things or tins from Loren and made do.

"I hope you're goin' to pay for those!" Loren called out of the open door as he spied Hank picking up apples and shoving them into his pockets.

"'Course I am." Grinning, Hank strolled into the shop. "Mornin', old man."

"What's so good about it?" grumbled Loren.

"Never said it was good, did I?" Hank pulled the apples out of his pockets again and placed them on the counter, feeling sorry for the old man who had lost wife, daughter and unborn grand-daughter in the space of two years. Much as he loved to make fun of Loren, he sympathised with the man's pain. "I'll take some cigars, too," he added now, plucking four from the jar on the shelf nearby.

Loren added up the total and Hank dropped some coins onto the counter, then put his purchases away again and headed for the door. An hour later he was on the way to Manitou, clutching his duster coat tight around him against the sudden icy wind which had sprung up from nowhere. So far it had been pretty cold for November and some people thought snow was on the way. However, although the wind continued whistling down from the mountains throughout the day, there was no precipitation and Hank arrived in Manitou without incident, traded the furs for fabrics and a heavy coat for himself, then took a room in the hotel for the night.

The following morning he set off for home, glad of the new coat as the temperature had dropped by several degrees. His hands were frozen and he kept one tucked inside his coat to stay warm, then swapped with the one on the reins whenever he lost the feeling in his fingers. The grey sky was now tinged with yellow and heavy with snow and he was only two miles out of Manitou when it began to fall. He pressed on, guessing he would make it home before the fall became significant, but the large fluffy flakes were already swirling around in the strong wind and by the time he had travelled for another hour, it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. The horse and mule ploughed on, heads down and all he could do was trust that their instinct would lead them back to Colorado Springs. He crouched low over his mount's neck, pulling his collar up and his hat down, the reins now held under one knee so that he could keep both hands inside his coat.

Time seemed to stand still and for all he knew he could have been riding around in circles. Common sense indicated the best option was to stop and find shelter, but there was little chance of that when he now couldn't even see his horse's ears in front of his face. He was shivering, face stiff with cold and feet numb in the stirrups. He was considering getting down from the horse and attempting to make some kind of shelter from the snow itself, when something spooked the animal and it danced rapidly to one side, unseating Hank. With his hands trapped inside his coat he was unable to save himself and tumbled to the ground, striking his head on something. It wasn't enough to knock him unconscious, but he saw stars and when he got to his feet he swayed dizzily and reached out to grab at the horse for support. It was gone and the mule with it.

Hank wrapped his coat tighter around himself and began to walk forwards slowly, one hand out-stretched in an effort to feel his way along, although there was nothing there to feel. Then suddenly he found bushes. Prickly branches scratched his hand and he pulled it back quickly, then reached out again more tentatively. The cluster of shrubs would shelter him a little and he dropped to his knees and crawled underneath, deciding to sit there and wait out the blizzard. If only he had something to make a fire with. He guessed he could have burned the duster coat which he was still wearing beneath the new one, but that would burn for about five minutes, leaving him colder than before when it went out. He sat still, his knees drawn up to his chin, breathing on his hands in an effort to keep them from getting frostbite. He was beginning to feel tired and guessed that if he fell asleep, at least the time would pass quicker and he'd probably wake up to find the snow had stopped. His eyelids drooped and his chin rested on his knees, but before he drifted off completely, the sound of voices came to him.

Hank jerked his head up quickly. What lunatic was out wandering around in the blizzard, other than himself? He made out two male voices, both shouting at intervals although he didn't understand what they were saying. More immigrants, no doubt. Then after a minute they switched to English.

"Helloooooo! Is anyone there!"

"Hey!" Hank's attempted shout came out as a croak and he cleared his throat and tried again. "_Hey_! Over here!"

The two voices exchanged comments in their own language and then one called out in English again. "Call again so we can hear where you are!"

"Here!" shouted Hank and began to get to his feet. Immigrants or not, at least they were going to save him from freezing to death. His legs, stiff with cold and having no feeling, refused to function and he sank back into the snow. Then suddenly he saw the glow of a lamp only a few feet away through the thick curtain of snow and the two men appeared in front of him. Both wore heavy coats similar to his own, with hats and mittens made of fur. The pair reached down now, gripping Hank by the wrists, holding his arms across their shoulders and hauling him to his feet.

"Who are you people?" he asked as they began to hurry into the blizzard, as confidently as if they could see where they were going.

"We have travelled from Prussia," one said.

"Prussia? Where's that?" asked Hank.

"It is in the east of Europe," said the other. "My name is Azriel and my brother here is Hyram."

"Hank Lawson," said Hank. "How'd ya find me?"

"Your horse and mule wandered into our camp," Hyram said. "We followed their hoof prints. Luckily it was not far or the snow would have already covered them."

"Well, thanks for lookin' for me."

In only a few more minutes, they reached the camp and Hank found a group of wagons positioned in a small circle, the horses, including his own, tethered in the shelter of a rocky outcrop with blankets draped over them. A large fire burned in the centre of the group of wagons, a tarp hooked up with stakes above it to protect it from the heavy snowfall and a woman bundled up in blankets stirred something in a pot suspended over the flames. Azriel now spoke to her in their own language for a moment before he and Hyram took Hank to one of the wagons and pulled him up into it, lowering him onto the edge of the narrow bed there, where he sat shivering.

"You must change clothes, you are wet," Hyram said, taking fresh clothes from a pile in the corner of the wagon. Hank nodded and attempted to unfasten his coat, but his frozen fingers refused to co-operate. Azriel turned towards him and systematically began to unfasten his clothes, taking each item off and then quickly replacing them with the fresh dry clothes which included thick woollen socks, shirt and pants of a heavy, coarse type of fabric and a kind of knitted jacket. Hyram then fetched a bowl of warm water, instructing Hank to place his hands in it until they thawed out. He did as instructed and sat there grimacing in pain, feeling almost sick with it, while the two brothers sat with him, telling him their group consisted of two Jewish families. They had travelled by ship to America and then by wagon to their current position. They were intending to continue south to a warmer climate before setting up home.

A short while later, Azriel's wife, Ilana, leaned into the wagon, holding out a wooden bowl containing a steaming portion of meat and potato stew. By this time Hank's fingers had recovered enough feeling in them to hold the bowl and the spoon and he ate the food gratefully, wondering how in the world he was going to repay these people. He had begun to realise that without them, he would probably have been dead by now if he'd fallen properly asleep.

He stayed the rest of the day and then the night in the wagon with Hyram and the following morning woke to blue skies, the ground covered by a thick blanket of snow which although deep, wasn't impassable and Colorado Springs was visible in the distance, probably only five miles away. Hank's clothes had dried out over night and he changed back into them, but thankfully accepted a pair of fur mittens before he set off, the mule carrying only half of the supplies he had left Manitou with. Learning that the Jews were peddlars who traded anything and everything, he gave them three bolts of the fabrics he had obtained for the girls and a sack of oats for their horses. Every one of them turned out to see him off as he mounted his horse; Azriel, Ilana and their two children, Hyram, their elderly parents and the other family which consisted of a husband and wife and four children.

When he finally arrived back at the saloon in the late morning, he found no one had even missed him, the girls merely assuming he had seen the snow coming and decided to stay in Manitou an extra night. He didn't bother to enlighten them or to explain the curious fur mittens he was wearing. It was one adventure he didn't even bother telling Myra about.


	28. Chapter 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Hank took the remaining bolts of fabric to Melinda's room in order for her to start work on some dresses in her free time. There was still at least enough material for a couple of frocks for each of the three girls. Then he went over to Loren's for some more cigars, the two he'd had when he left Manitou having been ruined by melted snow. He took half a dozen cigars from the jar and went to pay for them.

"Good trip?" Loren asked.

"Not bad," Hank said.

"Lucky ya didn't get caught in that blizzard."

"Yeah." Hank grinned to himself, then glanced around him. No one else was in the store and he had decided to buy something for Myra. He knew he'd been cruel to her over the damned social disease and seeing her miserable face every day had begun to make him feel guilty. She hadn't even seemed pleased to see him when he arrived home earlier and he wanted to get something nice to cheer her up.

"Is there anythin' else?" Loren asked him.

"I wanna buy some perfume," said Hank.

"You wanna buy _what_?" exclaimed Loren, eyes widening with sudden amusement.

"Perfume. Ya do sell it, right?"

"Weeelllll, yes, but I have to order it in special. What're you wantin' perfume for?"

"Mind yer own business," grunted Hank.

"Thinkin' of makin' those girls of yours smell enticin'?"

"Maybe."

"Here." Loren shoved a catalogue in front of him now and flipped it open to a page showing a number of bottles of perfume with fancy names. "Take yer pick."

"Why don't you pick, Loren? You sell the stuff. Ya must know what's good and what ain't," said Hank, not having the faintest idea how to select such an item.

Loren tutted and turned the catalogue around on the counter so it was the right way up for him to read.

"Well, this one right here is said to be very allurin'," he said, pointing to a picture of a bottle. "It's from Paris, France. They make the best perfume in the world, the French."

"How long's it gonna take to come from France?" asked Hank doubtfully.

"It'll come from New York; they have a store there that keeps stock in. I'd say it'll be here in two weeks," Loren said.

"Better get it ordered then," Hank nodded.

"Ain't ya gonna ask how much it costs?"

"Nah."

Shrugging, Loren put away the catalogue and began writing in his order book. "I'll have to take a fifty per cent deposit as this is a special order," he said. "It's five dollars."

Hank took out some coins and placed two-fifty on the counter.

"No, the deposit is five dollars," Loren told him. "The perfume is ten."

"_How much_?"

Loren chuckled now, the first time he had found anything to be amused by in a long time, aside from the doctor falling in the mud.

"Like I said, it's from Paris, that's how much it costs. So do ya want it, or not?"

Sighing, Hank took out another two-fifty and handed it over. For ten dollars, the perfume had better smell like nectar. He just hoped Myra would use it for his benefit and not waste it on the customers.

The perfume arrived the week before Christmas after a slight delay due to the store being inundated with orders for festive gifts. Hank had almost forgotten about it until Loren brought it out from under the counter one day when he had gone into the store to buy coffee.

"This arrived for ya yesterday," he said.

It was in an elaborate cut glass bottle with a silver cap engraved with leaves covering the glass stopper. No wonder it cost ten dollars. Most of that probably went on the bottle.

"'Bout time," grunted Hank, pulling out another five dollars for the balance.

"Who's it for? Myra?" Loren winked. "Ain't the others gonna be jealous if ya don't get them Christmas gifts too?"

"It ain't supposed to be for Christmas, it's just late," Hank grumbled. "Ya know I don't buy Christmas gifts."

"Maybe ya should. Would ya like me to wrap it in some fancy paper?"

"No," Hank said shortly.

He grabbed the bottle and thrust it into his pocket, then charged out of the door, almost knocking Michaela flat as he collided with her on the porch. He grabbed her arm to save her falling and she regained her balance before shaking him off angrily and brushing down her skirts.

"Excuse me," he muttered, stepping past her.

"Hank, may I speak with you?" she asked suddenly, halting him. He turned towards her again.

"If ya must."

"How is Myra? It's a few days since I saw her."

"Ya mean is she still 'chaste'?" Hank said, twitching one eyebrow upwards and grinning at Michaela's disapproving look. "Don't worry, I don't want it spreadin' 'round the customers; they'd be goin' elsewhere."

"I meant, is she feeling better?" Michaela said sharply.

"Far as I know. Is there anythin' else? I got things to do."

"No, nothing else."

Hank nodded and returned to the saloon, leaving the perfume in his coat for the rest of the day. He decided to give it to Myra after they closed for the night when the other girls had gone to bed.

When the last customer left, Hank locked the door and the girls went to their rooms. He poured himself a final whiskey, gulped it and then retrieved the perfume from his room before going to Myra's. He opened the door and found her sitting in front of the mirror brushing her hair, already changed into her nightgown. She glanced at him in the glass, but didn't turn around.

"Did ya want somethin', Hank?" she asked. "Ya know I still got a few days to go before I can do anythin'." She stood up and put her brush down on the table, still not turning to face him.

"Yeah, I know. I got somethin' for ya." He bent forward and kissed her neck, then lifted one hand up in front of her with the bottle of perfume in it.

"Perfume?" she said in surprise, taking the bottle.

"All the way from France."

Myra turned around at last and looked up at him. "Ya didn't have to do this," she said.

"I wanted to."

"Thank you, Hank."

She smiled now and took the cap off the bottle, pulled out the stopper and dabbed a little perfume onto her wrists. It smelled divine. Hank took the bottle out of her hands and put it down, then drew her closer and bent to kiss her. He knew he ought to pay more attention to her than he had been doing lately. He slept with her when he felt like it, but they weren't so close as they once had been and that look in her eyes that said she was thinking about something else kept appearing more and more. It had started after her trip to St Louis, but increased since she met Michaela. He knew the pair had seen each other more times than when the doctor attended to her and he wondered if her head was being filled with stories of life in the city again, making her want to move on.

He pushed it out of his mind as he kissed her. She responded the same as she always did, sliding her arms around him, her mouth soft and warm. He held her tighter, his body immediately beginning to react to the feel of her, but she pulled back after a moment.

"Hank, don't," she protested. "Ya know I can't."

He grinned wickedly. "Ya got hands, don't ya?"

Myra giggled.

"I wanna be with ya tonight," added Hank, drawing her towards the bed.

He stayed until morning, his arms wrapped around her, waking to the lingering scent of the perfume on her skin. It had been worth ten dollars after all.

As usual, Hank took Myra to the town Christmas party, wearing one of her fancy frocks and a hint of perfume. She looked beautiful and it seemed that whatever it was they had between them was still there.

"Perfume went down well, then," Loren said in a low voice a little later, having caught the scent of Myra as she passed him.

Hank grinned. "Tempted, are ya?"

"No!" Loren's face flushed slightly, making Hank snigger. The older man walked off to speak to the Reverend, an embarrassed frown on his face.

Myra returned to Hank's side with two plates of food and passed him one.

"What're ya laughin' at?" she asked. "Teasin' Loren again?"

"Think yer perfume's got him goin'," smirked Hank. "The doc given ya the all clear yet?"

"Yes. Is Loren thinkin' of...?" said Myra in surprise.

"No, but I am." He smiled wider. "Let's not hang around too long, eh?"

It was a white Christmas for once. The snow hadn't really let up since the blizzard at the end of November, with little flurries adding to it every so often and the temperature preventing it melting. A thick frozen layer remained on the ground for the next week and the townsfolk wrapped up warm for the New Year celebrations. As soon as midnight struck, Hank kissed Myra heatedly and hustled her back to the saloon, foregoing the rest of the party. Little did he know it was the last time she would kiss him willingly for a considerable length of time.

The snow melted and everyone welcomed the rise in temperature. The January sun was unusually warm and coats, hats and gloves were no longer needed. However, two weeks later Colorado Springs was struck down by a severe influenza epidemic which threw everyone into a panic. The first victim was the seamstress, Emily's husband, although she and her baby both contracted it and survived.

Most went to Jake, sweating, shivering, coughing and staggering and he bled them one after another, filling his barber's shop with gruesome piles of bloody rags, his patients leaving no better than they went in.

Hank closed the saloon and refused to let Melinda and Dotty set foot outside since neither of them had it before. He was reluctant to let Myra out, but acknowledged someone would have to go out to fetch food and since she'd had it before it was fairly certain she wouldn't catch it again. She brought back supplies and reported that Dr Mike had taken over the Coopers' old boarding house to use as a clinic as there was nowhere else to care for the sick. Sully had ripped off the boards nailed over the doors and windows by the bank to let her in. A number of people began turning to her instead of Jake in the hopes she would have a better method of treating them. They were encouraged by the fact that she had saved Emily's baby, and Emily herself appeared to be on the mend.

Within a few days it became clear that Myra wasn't going to get sick and against his better judgement, Hank agreed to her going over to the makeshift clinic to help out. Myra would do anything to help anybody if she possibly could. Jake was now sick himself and the old boarding house was full of people needing care. Several had already died and the moment they were carried out of the building, their vacant beds were filled with more.

Eventually Michaela herself was struck down with the grip. Sully, who had begun hanging around again, apparently interested in the attractive doctor, brought one of his Indian friends into town, who carried Michaela off in her under-garments on the back of his horse, much to the townsfolks' horror. However, she was returned no worse off and quickly recovered afterwards, then proceeded to use Indian medicine to help the rest of her patients as her own supplies had run out.

Gradually the epidemic subsided and the stores and saloon re-opened. Myra was never quite the same after her stint as a nurse and it wasn't too long before Hank realised the cause. One of her patients had been Horace Bing, the telegraph operator, and once he got back on his feet he began sniffing around the saloon in an attempt to see her.

"I just wanna talk to her," he told Hank timidly on his third attempt to get past the barkeep to Myra.

Hank evicted him quickly, advised him in no uncertain terms that whatever Myra's time was required for, whether it was talking or something else, it would cost him and then cuffed him around the head to drive his point home. Horace took off, intimidated and apparently not having five dollars to spare or considering he had better things to spend it on than Myra.


	29. Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Despite Michaela saving most people from the influenza epidemic, Hank still didn't fancy entrusting himself to her should anything happen to him, but when he found himself with no choice he subsequently revised his opinion of her somewhat.

A rough customer started causing trouble in the saloon, grabbing Myra and bruising her arm. He had had too much whiskey and decided he wanted her company without paying Hank for it first. Hank vaulted over the bar at once and punched the man who somehow managed to stay on his feet, shoved Myra to the floor and then pulled out a knife. The tussle concluded with the knife sticking Hank in the arm and the customer making a run for it when several other men stood up and stepped towards him.

"Y'alright?" Hank looked down at Myra where she still crouched on the floor and grasped her hand to pull her to her feet.

"I'm fine, but you ain't." She looked at the sleeve of his white shirt, which was torn and soaked in blood just below the elbow.

"It's nothin'." Still pumped with adrenaline, Hank didn't yet feel any pain and he rolled up the sleeve to inspect the damage. The wound wasn't nothing, but a two inch laceration which now dripped freely onto the floor. "Hell," he hissed through his teeth. "Where's Jake?"

Myra indicated the barber, slumped over a table in the corner with an empty bottle in front of him.

"I only gave him that an hour ago!" Hank exclaimed.

"Ya know what he's like; he's on one of his binges," said Myra. "Ya'll have to go and see Dr Mike."

"The hell I will, I ain't havin' a woman sew me up."

"Well, ya can wait till Jake sobers up, but ya might bleed to death in the process," Myra told him drily. "Dr Mike's real good; look how many people she saved from the grip. Half the town might've died without her, includin' Jake."

Hank sighed heavily. It was a nasty cut and it seemed there was no other option. Myra found a clean rag and tied it around his arm to stem the bleeding while he got on his horse and rode over to Sully's old homestead. The wound was really beginning to throb now and the soaked rag was leaking.

He jumped to the ground in front of the building and knocked loudly on the door, then after a few seconds went to the window and rapped on this hard, making the glass pane rattle in its frame.

"Doc!" he shouted. A moment later the door opened to reveal Michaela, wearing an apron over her dress.

"What happened to you?" she asked, reaching out to touch his injured arm. He flinched involuntarily.

"Some guy cut me." He cleared his throat, hating to ask her to help when he'd made it so obvious what he thought of her. "How much to sew me up?"

"I thought you'd prefer the expertise of Mr Slicker in these matters," Michaela said, eyebrows raised.

"Jake's drunk; now, can ya talk later when I'm not bleedin' to death?" Hank said, exasperated by the tone of her voice, which was a little condescending.

"Dollar a stitch," she said now.

"Well, that's robbery!" exclaimed Hank. Hadn't he told Myra she would cost money? He just hadn't realised how much. How Myra had paid for her treatment he had no idea. He certainly hadn't footed the bill himself, although he supposed he would have if he'd been asked.

"Then I invite you to take your business elsewhere," responded Michaela and began to push the door closed. Hank thrust his good arm out at once and held it open.

"Could ya do it already?" he said with a sigh. Dollar a stitch. He just hoped it would only take a couple of them.

Michaela told him to wait in the homestead while she fetched water and he sat down at the table, grimacing at the pain in his arm. She returned quickly and began laying out a clean towel, bandages, scissors, thread and so on. Who'd have thought sewing up a cut would have to be so complicated? Jake used a large needle and a length of black tailors' thread. No wonder she charged so much if she had to use so many different things.

Michaela carefully untied the rag from Hank's arm and it immediately began to bleed freely again. She covered it with a cloth and applied pressure to stop the flow.

"This is a nasty cut, Hank," she commented. "You say someone did this on purpose?"

"Guess he didn't like me punchin' him," said Hank with a slight grin.

Michaela frowned disapprovingly and swabbed his wound none too gently with a different cloth soaked in fluid. It stung like hell and almost made his eyes water.

"The fella was hurtin' Myra," he said through gritted teeth. "What's that stuff yer usin'?"

"Antiseptic. The knife which cut you may well have been unclean; you don't want to develop an infection. How is Myra?"

"Fine. He didn't have chance to do nothin'."

Michaela nodded and removed the pad again, inspecting the wound. The bleeding had slowed, but she replaced the cloth again and prepared a needle and thread; the tiniest needle Hank had ever seen in his life; in fact he could barely see it at all. He watched, fascination overshadowing the pain, as she began to stitch up the cut, the tiny needle slipping through his flesh with the minimum of effort. The stitches were so small they were barely noticeable, the most worrying thing about the procedure being that she put in eight of them, which of course meant eight dollars. Jake would have done maybe three or four large ones and charged two bits.

"There, this should heal nicely. You'll need to make sure it stays clean and change the bandage every day. I'll take the stitches out in a week or so," Michaela said. "There should be virtually no scar in a few weeks."

"Ya gonna charge me a dollar a stitch for takin' 'em out too?" Hank asked, grinning now.

"No, I think eight dollars in total will cover everything."

She finished up by cleaning the section of his arm around the wound for the second time and wrapping it in a thick white bandage. Then she handed over a second rolled up bandage to take as a spare and suggested he ask Myra to change it for him. Hank pulled some money out of his pocket and gave her the eight dollars.

"Thanks," he said, getting to his feet. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he was impressed. It was only a simple sewing up job, but she'd made it seem like an important operation which she'd carried out with efficiency and great care. He guessed he'd rather have her fix him than Jake in the future. At least there appeared to be less chance of ending up with gangrene or something.

"You're welcome," she said now, showing him to the door. "Remember to keep that clean."

"Sure." He pulled open the door and almost knocked down an older woman, the doctor's mother who was visiting. Her face took on an expression of horror as she looked at him and it wasn't until he arrived back in the saloon and caught sight of himself in the mirror when he went to change his shirt, that he realised his face was streaked with blood in addition to that soaking his sleeve.

The next day, Hank was less than pleased when Horace Bing marched determinedly into the saloon again, only this time he had money. He slapped a five dollar gold piece down onto the bar and invited Hank to count it. Hank smirked and pointed him in the direction of Myra's room. The girls weren't out circulating the bar yet and he guessed it wouldn't hurt. Maybe if Horace used his five dollars wisely and got her out of his system, he would stop hanging around like a bad smell.

Considering Horace was most likely completely inexperienced, he was in Myra's room an awful long time. Hank kept on glancing at the clock, wondering what was taking so long. Horace must be trying to get plenty of practise in before his time was up. Hank left it half an hour and then went and banged on the door.

"Hey! Time's up! Ya want any longer, it's another five bucks!"

Horace emerged red-faced in an instant, not appearing in the least rumpled. Myra was sitting on the bed, all neat and prim-looking with everything fastened up, for all the world as if they'd been doing nothing except passing the time of day. Hank strolled back to the bar, scratching his head in puzzlement. Had Horace really paid him five dollars just to talk to her? It sure seemed that way.

Michaela's mother left for Boston a few days later and right after that Michaela took over the boarding house properly and turned it into a medical clinic. Apparently her mother had helped out, since Jebediah Bancroft, the banker in charge of the sale of the building, had refused the doctor a mortgage. Having the clinic in town made everything much easier for all concerned and Hank called in the following week to have his stitches removed.

Surprisingly, Horace returned for another 'talk' with Myra, apparently having found some hidden savings somewhere. Hank was certain there was more to it although Myra swore blind that Horace 'wasn't like that'. Hank hated the way she took up for him and when he asked what was going on, she said it was nothing. He thought about it and fumed, sure she was lying. Myra never lied as far as he knew and it made him feel sick and anxious, resulting in his temper increasing until it simmered just below the surface, waiting for an excuse to explode.

A week later, with the saloon full of drinkers along with a 'Doc Eli' and his pet Indian who were travelling around in a wagon with their so-called medicine show, one of Myra's customers emerged from her room half-dressed and complaining he wasn't getting his money's worth because Myra was sick.

"What's all this crap?" he hissed at Myra then.

"I ain't feelin' right," she said, clutching her stomach.

"Yer gonna be feelin' a lot worse if ya don't get back in there," Hank threatened, unable to control himself after the last few days of suspicion. Then much to his annoyance, Doc Eli butted in. He would have sent the man away with a flea in his ear, except for the fact that he offered free medicine to Myra, guaranteed to cure all female complaints, he said.

"I wanna see Dr Mike," protested Myra unhappily.

"She costs money." Hank pressed the bottle of medicine on her and sent her back to the irritable customer, hoping that would be the end of it. He doubted she was even sick. Since Horace came on the scene, she seemed to sulk all the time except when he came over for one of his 'chats'.

A couple of days later, he found out exactly what had been going on. Michaela had been over to see Myra after all and later on, Myra asked Hank to go to her room so she could speak to him.

"What's this about?" he grumbled, following her. "Ya gonna tell me what's been goin' on?"

"Yes. I'll tell ya," she said in a small voice, ushering him into the bedroom and closing the door after them.

"Hey, what the hell is this?" he demanded. Michaela and Horace were waiting in the room and Hank felt the hair on the back of his neck beginning to stand up. If she really was sick he could understand Michaela being there, but how did Horace fit into it? Hank ground his teeth together and waited for one of them to speak. Myra scurried across the room and stood beside Michaela.

"I'm pregnant," she blurted out.

"What?" exclaimed Horace.

"How the hell did that happen?" demanded Hank.

"You know..." Myra said in a small voice.

"I know how it happened!" cried Hank. "I wanna know why! You've been in this business long enough to know better, Myra." He was reeling. How could she be pregnant? She was always careful. _Always._ Even with him.

"I'm sorry," whimpered Myra.

"It's not her fault," Horace put in quietly.

"Keep out of this!" Hank spun around, jabbing the other man in the chest. Tears began to roll down Myra's cheeks and Michaela put a comforting arm around her.

"I won't!" Horace exclaimed. "You made her cry!"

"I didn't make her do nothin'!" Hank growled.

He clenched his fists, waiting for Horace to open his mouth once more so he could hit him. What did it have to do with him anyhow? Michaela wrapped her arms tighter around the weeping Myra as she cowered against the wall. Hank looked at her again, his mind a turmoil - fury combined with shock and hurt. Myra - _his Myra_ - was pregnant?

"_D'ya even know who it was?" _he roared at her.

"Me. It was me!" exclaimed Horace with a touch of defiance in his voice.

"Horace!" gasped the two women, both looking equally shocked.

"That's right. The baby's mine!" confirmed Horace.

Hank threw a punch before he could even think of a suitable response, his fist slamming into Horace's left eye and knocking him backwards onto Myra's bed. He felt sick.

"I knew there was more goin' on in here than just talk," he said, looking back at Myra.

Had she enjoyed being with Horace? Seen it as more than just earning money? Had feelings for him, maybe? He wasn't even a proper man. It was an insult. Hank stormed out of the room, dragging his hands through his hair, wanting to get away from them before he was tempted to add to Horace's black eye and dish the same out to Myra. He slammed into his bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him and paced around, breathing hard. He stayed in there until he heard Michaela and Horace leave, then went through to the bar for a bottle of whiskey.

He returned to his room and sat on the edge of the bed, taking large gulps straight from the bottle, going over and over everything in his mind. Myra taking care of Horace when he was sick with the grip, probably giving him a little extra special care. Horace sniffing around the saloon, making out he only wanted to talk. Who handed over five dollars a time for a conversation? Now she was pregnant. He got up again, paced about for a moment and then halted, hurling his fist at the door. His hand immediately began to throb and he turned around, leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. How had things changed so fast?

Gradually his temper began to subside. He put the bottle down and opened the door quietly. Squeals and giggles were coming from Melinda's room at the end of the corridor and he could see Dotty through the door that led to the bar, standing behind the counter serving drinks. He walked down the corridor slowly and halted outside Myra's door, wondering what he could say to her. He was so bad at expressing his feelings and he wasn't even sure what they were at that moment; shock, anger, disgust, disappointment; mostly pain. He put his hand on the door knob and hesitated when he heard her sobbing softly the other side of it. Then he went ahead and opened it. She was lying on her bed facing the wall, crying as if her heart would break.

"Myra."

She froze and went silent except for letting out a long shaky breath. Hank stared at her back, part of him wanting to offer her comfort, but at the same time needing it himself. He simply stood there by the door for a long moment looking at her and then quietly backed away and closed the door again. Once back in his own room, he finished the bottle of whiskey and lay down, spending the rest of the night halfway between sleeping and waking, torturing himself with his thoughts. In the end the only conclusion was that if Myra had a baby he would lose her.


	30. Chapter 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

Hank was disturbed by a thump some time later. It was early in the morning and with the bottle of whiskey empty his mind was fuzzy, making him unsure whether he had imagined the noise or not. He sat up slowly and put his hand on his gun which lay on the bed beside him. There was silence and after a while he forgot about it, his mind occupied once again by the thought of Myra being pregnant. A little while later he leapt to his feet at the sound of a door crashing back against a wall and then footsteps in the corridor. He threw his own door open and charged out.

"Outta my way!"

Much to Hank's surprise, he was knocked back against the wall by Horace who was carrying Myra in his arms. With her head rolling back and her arms dangling, it was clear she was unconscious.

"Where ya goin' with her?" Hank protested, starting to follow.

Horace ignored him, charging out through the bar as fast as his long legs would carry him. Somehow he got the door open without dropping Myra and then disappeared in the direction of the clinic. Since the door had been locked, Hank guessed he must have sneaked in through Myra's window. Hank felt a prickle of annoyance, coupled with anxiety at the state of Myra, wondering what could have happened to her, but he didn't continue following them. His head was thumping and he guessed Michaela would fix her up. He went to find some coffee, then thought better of it and snatched up a fresh bottle of whiskey. Just a few shots to make himself feel better and then he'd go over to the clinic and find out what was going on.

It was almost noon by the time Hank made it across the street. Horace had just emerged from the clinic, looking haggard from lack of sleep, his left eye swollen shut and purple from where Hank had hit him the day before. He halted nervously as Hank approached.

"When am I gettin' my girl back?" demanded Hank.

"Maybe never," Horace said grimly and turned to walk away.

"Whaddya mean by that?"

"She ain't pregnant."

Hank's spirits lifted for a brief moment, but then came crashing down again when Horace continued.

"She's got a tumor. Dr Mike's gonna operate on her." He turned away from Hank again and began to head up the street.

Filled with horror, Hank marched after him. It was all well and good having Michaela put a few stitches in him, but he wasn't having her start carving Myra up. It wasn't that long since she cut into Loren when he had a hernia and he'd almost bled to death. Half the town had stood outside the clinic to wait for the result while Horace, watching through the window, had reported that the operation looked like the slaughter of a pig. No way in hell was he letting that happen to Myra. Doc Eli's medicine would fix her if she could be bothered to take it. He barked at Horace now and said as much.

"She's havin' the operation and that's that," Horace said firmly.

"Listen up, lover boy, Myra belongs to me. I got a contract says so and I say she takes the medicine," snarled Hank.

"Yeah?" Horace stuck his chin in the air. He was sure asking for another punch.

"Yeah. What're ya gonna do about it?"

"Nothin'. Except this." Horace swung his fist so fast and so hard that it crashed into Hank's jaw and made him stagger before he even saw it coming. Astonished and furious with himself for being hit, he shook his head and then hurtled at Horace, throwing the pair of them to the ground. Pulling himself to his knees, he began to hit the other man in the face, splitting his lip, making his nose bleed, blacking the other eye. It didn't seem to matter how hard he hit or how much damage he did, Horace was determined and repeatedly gasped that Myra was having the operation. Now he scrambled to his feet, but Hank sprang up and delivered another weighty punch, knocking Horace against the wall before he could properly gain his balance.

"Horace!" Myra's anguished voice came from the clinic balcony above them.

"Myra!" Horace looked up and Hank followed his gaze.

She was standing there in a prim white nightdress, her face almost the same colour. He turned his attention back to Horace and hit him once again, realising that he wasn't even angry with the telegraph operator any more, but was simply lashing out in shock and fear of what might happen to Myra. People died from tumors all the time and those that didn't had parts of themselves amputated. He was beginning to realise that no amount of free medicine was going to help the situation.

"There ain't no other cure," Horace confirmed, spluttering blood.

Hank took a step back as Michaela and Doc Eli both rushed into the fray to save Horace from any further beating, Doc Eli telling Hank that Myra did need to have the surgery. It was the only way of saving her case was different and the medicine wasn't going to work. Hank glanced from one to the other, Horace now clutching at Michaela in an effort to stay on his feet as he swayed, punch drunk. He turned his attention from them and looked back up at Myra again. There was nothing he could do; she could die, with or without surgery and he didn't want to have to cope with another loss.

"You want her, you can have her. Only a damned fool falls in love with a whore," he said bitterly, still looking at Myra.

He doubted anyone realised he wasn't talking about Horace, but himself and he hadn't just done it once, but twice. First Clarice and now Myra. He loved Myra. He'd known it for years and simply denied it to himself, thinking he would save himself heartache and that the contract would keep her with him. He turned away now and walked off, the tears in his eyes threatening to spill over, not even caring if anyone noticed. He passed Melinda on the way back to the saloon, apparently out looking for him. She ran to his side now and grasped his arm.

"Hank, what's wrong?"

"Get the hell off me!" he hissed, pushing her away hard enough to make her stumble. He hurried into the saloon and returned to his room to compose himself before he went back to the bar, deciding he had wasted enough time drinking himself stupid. Getting drunk wasn't going to change anything and it didn't help much in blotting things out either. He would just have to get on with it the best he could and hope that Michaela knew what she was doing.

The operation took place the next day. Dotty returned from Loren's store and commented that Dr Mike and Doc Eli were performing the surgery together. That didn't exactly fill Hank with confidence either; the visiting doctor was a drunk. He stayed behind the bar stewing for as long as he could manage and then strode outside, lighting up a cigar and trying to appear as if he didn't have a care in the world as he sauntered over to the clinic where Horace and Sully were sitting outside. He had to know what was going on; find out if Myra would survive.

"What d'you want?" Sully asked as he approached. His tame wolf which lay at his feet showed its teeth briefly.

"Just passin' by." Hank halted and leaned against the wall, looking at Horace. "She owes me, Horace. Got a year left on her contract yet," he said. He doubted it was anywhere near that long now, but Horace wouldn't know. Horace immediately got to his feet, both eyes swollen almost shut and his lip puffed up to match.

""I'm gonna buy out her contract," he said determinedly.

"You ain't got the money."

Horace immediately took a step forward, a glutton for punishment it seemed.

"Horace, sit down, shut up!" exclaimed Sully. After a brief moment he sat down meekly, apparently glad of Sully's interference.

"Both of ya," added Sully, glaring at Hank now.

Hank sighed heavily and walked over to the bench, lowering himself onto it between the other two. In a way he was relieved. He didn't have the energy or the inclination for another fight. The only thing that mattered was whether Myra would be alright.

Time crawled by and Horace looked at his pocket watch what seemed like every five minutes, reporting the time to the others until they had been waiting for over two hours. Eventually the door of the clinic opened to reveal Michaela, looking tired but not unhappy, to tell them that Myra was going to be fine. Horace darted inside immediately. Shrugging, Hank went back to the saloon. He knew full well Michaela would never let him in there and she had Sully and his wolf backing her up so there wasn't a great deal of point arguing. He could wait. He'd have Myra back again when she was well and hold the contract over her. He wasn't going to let her go without a fight; Horace could protest as much as he liked.

Myra remained at the clinic for several days after the operation and Horace went over there every lunchtime and as soon as he finished work. Hank ignored it as best he could and simply waited for her to come back. At last early on Saturday before the saloon opened, she did just that. Hank was sitting on the porch, his feet up on the railing smoking his first cigar of the day when he saw Horace go to the clinic. Michaela let him in, but then moments later the door opened again and out he came, Myra holding on tight to his arm, her free hand resting over her stomach. She was wearing a borrowed dress that was several sizes too big for her and her face had no colour in it at all. It occurred to Hank that she looked a lot like she had the very first time he'd seen her - pale, thin and unhealthy and wearing clothes that didn't fit.

Slowly they headed across the street to the saloon and Hank tossed the remains of the cigar to the ground, got up and waited for them to reach him. Myra gripped Horace's arm harder as she climbed onto the porch in front of him, grimacing a little in pain.

"I'll take it from here," Hank said gruffly, taking hold of Myra's free arm. "You ain't welcome in here, Horace."

Horace's mouth immediately opened to respond with something that would probably earn him another punch, not that there appeared to be a place on his face which wasn't bruised already. However, Myra interrupted before he could speak.

"It's alright, Horace, I'll be fine," she said, letting go of him. Hank smirked at the other man above her head and then turned to lead her into the saloon.

"How are ya?" he asked. "Ya look awful pale."

"Dr Mike said it'll take a while to heal completely," she said. "Outside the cut is almost healed, but inside it'll be a few weeks. I ain't gonna be able to work, at least not..."

"Don't matter," Hank interrupted. "More important that ya get better. When ya feel up to it, ya can just serve behind the bar."

Myra nodded, then stopped walking for a moment, gasping in pain and clutching her stomach again.

"What is it? Ya want me to carry ya or somethin'?" asked Hank in alarm.

"No, I'll be alright in a minute." She gripped his arm tighter with her other hand. "I'll be fine once I lie down. This is the first time I walked anywhere since the operation." She stayed still for a long moment and then let Hank lead her slowly to her room. She lowered herself carefully onto the bed and lay back against the pillows with a sigh.

"Ya want me to get ya anythin'?" Hank offered anxiously.

"No, I just need to rest."

He hovered for another minute, not knowing what to do with himself. It pained him to see her suffering and he wasn't sure whether this was even normal. Still, she was alive and he hadn't even been sure she'd survive the surgery.

"Just yell if ya need somethin'," he told her. "One of the girls can come to ya if it ain't nothin' I can do."

"Thank you, Hank." Myra closed her eyes now and he backed out of the door and returned to the bar, leaning on the counter with both hands, head hanging as he thought about her. He'd come so close to losing her, but now she was back he was going to make damned sure he didn't lose her for any other reason. He had no idea how she could possibly find Horace appealing, but he was determined not to give her any reason to want to continue with their 'chats' or whatever it was they'd been doing. He still wasn't sure on that. The first time when he interrupted them in her room, they hadn't been doing a thing. Then when she thought she was pregnant, Horace had said it was his fault, but no one had looked more astounded by this revelation that Myra. Hank had been so mad at the time that he hadn't considered it, but why would she look so shocked, unless she hadn't been with Horace at all and he'd lied to support her? Perhaps after all, Myra really had been telling the truth.


	31. Chapter 31

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Myra recovered sufficiently after a week to be able to serve behind the bar and many of the regulars told her they were glad to see her back. However, despite Hank banning Horace from the saloon there wasn't a great deal he could do about Myra's Sundays off and he knew they spent the afternoons together.

Assuming Myra would see Horace for what he was and drop him in time, Hank did nothing about it, but it wasn't too long before the town was gossiping about how Horace intended to marry Myra, whether he managed to save up enough to buy out her contract or whether he had to wait until it ended. Most people thought the idea of the telegraph operator falling for a whore was hilarious and didn't take them seriously, but the idea of it made Hank sick. It was only the knowledge that Horace couldn't afford to buy Myra's freedom that stopped him going crazy. It was bad enough that Myra appeared to have feelings for him and he began to wonder if marriage was something she longed for. However, there were too many other things going on for him to give it too much attention.

The next drama in town resulted from Michaela's youngest son, Brian, taking a nosedive out of a tree and sustaining a head injury. He seemed fine immediately after the fall, but suddenly lost his sight when he was helping Loren with plans for a new schoolhouse, the young boy eager to be able to go to a proper school. Loren and Jake had been appointed to run the scheme between them, until they fell out on the first day. Jake turned up in the saloon shortly after and began working his way down a bottle of whiskey.

"What's wrong with you?" Hank grunted when Jake had reached the halfway mark.

He revealed that Loren had discovered he couldn't read and was so tickled by this that he planned to tell everybody about it. It wasn't that much of a big deal, but it had made Jake feel stupid and humiliated.

"Who cares who he tells?" Hank said. "Hell, I can't read either." No one in town had ever actually seen him read or write and he simply wanted to make Jake feel better. He knew all too well what it was like to be made to feel a failure, regardless of how minor the subject appeared.

"Me neither," added Myra.

Jake began to cheer up quickly after their comments. "Who wants to read anyway? Nothin' but bad news," he said, his face brightening.

"That's for sure." Hank poured Jake another drink and then one for himself.

It was not long after this that a commotion outside drew the three of them out of the saloon. Loren was running to the clinic with Brian in his arms. No one had seen Loren run in a very long time and flocked to the clinic to find out what had happened to the boy. He had just lost his sight which indicated an urgent need for an operation. Michaela rushed to the telegraph office to send a wire for a surgeon, with perhaps a dozen people following her.

What followed was several days of worry, ending with a wire to advise the doctor couldn't make it because of bad weather. Brian had slipped into a coma by then and Michaela was forced to operate on him herself with the help of Jake, the Reverend and Grace, the black woman who had recently opened a cafe next to the livery. The surgery went on for hours and a crowd of people including Hank, waited outside for news.

The episode made him wonder about Zack and how he was getting on. Every month Myra had ridden over to Ruby's to take her the money and she told Hank that the boy spent most of his time drawing pictures. He hadn't seen for himself, but it was looking like he would get the chance as Myra still wasn't fit to ride a horse and Ruby's monthly payment would be due in a week. Although a number of people in town knew that Ruby was bringing up the child, no one other than Myra knew Hank was his father so the only option was for him to ride out there himself with the money.

With Brian still unconscious after the operation, half the town turned out to build the new schoolhouse, the one thing which Brian had longed for so fervently. With so many of the townsfolk working on the building, it was completed in just days, right on time for Brian waking from his coma, none the worse for the surgery. Relieved, the town got back to its normal routine and Hank got back to thinking about going to see Ruby. And Zack.

He put it off for another week, worrying about seeing his son. When the boy had still lived at the saloon, he had hidden from Hank. In fact he'd hidden from everyone except Myra and Lissy. Hank had never gotten over the guilt he felt for not trying harder with Clarice and for not making an effort to be a father and he had no idea how he was going to feel when he saw the boy. However, he never got the chance to ride out to Ruby's place.

"Hank?" Myra walked around the bar to join him where he was putting away clean glasses before the saloon opened for the day. She rested her hand on his arm.

"What?" he grunted.

"Dr Mike and Sully just went by in their wagon with Zack."

_"What?" _Hank looked at her in alarm.

"I ain't sure, but it looked like there was a body in the back. A foot was stickin' out."

Hank's stomach somersaulted. Had something happened to Ruby? If that were the case, what was going to happen to Zack? Michaela would no doubt interfere and start asking questions like she always did. His first thought was that if someone found out Zack was his, the whole town would be talking about what a good for nothing failure he was as a father and they would all be right.

"Go and find out what's goin' on," he told Myra.

She nodded and gave his arm a squeeze before setting off outside. When she returned half an hour later, it was to tell him that Ruby had been found dead in her cabin, with Zack hiding in the closet. Michaela was checking him over and trying to find out something about him.

"What did ya tell her?" demanded Hank.

"Nothin, I ain't spoken to her," Myra said. "I heard Sully talkin' to Brian."

Hank continued to worry about it until the following day when Ruby was buried. Michaela had taken Zack home with her and after the funeral, began asking questions again. Hank hung around, trying not to look guilty as Loren, Olive, Jake, Horace and the Reverend stood talking to Michaela and Sully.

Between them, they told her Zack's mother had been a whore and that she got sick and died and the boy went to live with Ruby as she'd once worked in the saloon years before. Loren went on to say the boy 'wasn't right'. Hank felt progressively more ashamed of himself and stayed mostly silent until the discussion was over.

Michaela took Zack home again, then returned to town the following day to buy him some new clothes from Loren before taking him to Jake for a haircut. Hank was in there waiting to have his beard trimmed and found himself sitting next to Zack for a few minutes. He peered at the boy from the corner of his eye for a moment. He had Clarice's eyes; a little more brown, but with a hint of that honey colour in them. It made him wonder if there really was a heaven and if Clarice was scowling down at him for his cowardice at that moment.

The following day he pulled himself together and did something about it. The last thing he wanted was Michaela taking it upon herself to adopt Zack, or worse, sending him off to live with some other family Hank knew nothing about.

"I want ya to go and get Zack," he told Myra. "Bring him back here."

Myra's eyes widened. "Ya gonna tell folks he's yours?"

"I dunno. I should." He sighed heavily. "I wanna try and do some good for him. My own pa beat hell outta me, but at least I knew who he was. Zack don't know who his pa is. Now he's older, he can do some jobs 'round here."

"I'll go now," Myra said at once.

"I'll hitch the wagon up for ya," Hank told her.

"I'll be alright to ride a horse now. I ain't sore no more," she told him. "I'm hopeless at drivin' anyhow."

Hank nodded and led her outside to the corral, quickly saddling his horse and helping her up onto it. A little over an hour later she was back, with Zack riding up behind her, holding on tight around her waist. She rode around the back of the saloon and Hank went out to lift them both down.

Everyone in the saloon, Loren and Jake included, looked up and stared open-mouthed as Hank and Myra ushered Zack inside, Hank giving him a broom and a list of instructions to keep him busy. No one said anything, but it was obvious they had plenty to think about. It would only be a matter of time before they started talking.

Less than twenty-four hours later, two drinkers started on Zack, teasing him and calling him an idiot as he mopped the porch and slopped water onto their boots, prompting Hank to launch himself at the pair of them and dish out a volley of punches. When they finally stumbled away, leaving Hank with a bloody nose but otherwise unhurt, he went over to the clinic to have the bleeding stemmed and find out if Michaela was still nosing into his business. It turned out she had already guessed the main fact.

"You're his father, aren't you?" she said. She proceeded to point out how he had repeatedly taken up for Zack and then stung him by asking why he left the boy alone for so long, goading him into a response.

"He wasn't alone!" snapped Hank. "It was me that found a place for him. It was me that paid every week for twelve years to make sure he had food and clothes."

"He didn't need money. He needed his father." Michaela was only telling him what he already knew and when he slammed out of the clinic moments later, he only felt worse than he had when he went in. He had failed the boy and there was no way of changing that except to make things better in the future. He just didn't know how to.

Zack continued working in the saloon for the next few days and was out sweeping the porch when Hank heard Brian talking to him, begging him to draw something to prove to everyone he could. Glancing outside, Hank spotted Loren, Olive, Jake, the Reverend and Michaela all across the street gossiping and guessed immediately what the subject was. He pushed open the swing doors and stepped out onto the porch. The group across the street were on their way over now and Myra slid out of the doors too and stood behind Zack and Brian.

"What can I do for you folks?" Hank asked.

Loren, Olive and Jake took turns at pointing out that it wasn't right for Zack to be living at the saloon and he would only cause trouble.

"The boy's stayin' right where he is," responded Hank.

"Who are you to decide?" Loren spoke for the group.

Hank hesitated for a moment, his heart thumping. Slowly he reached out and drew the broom out of Zack's hands, dropped it on the ground and rested his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"I'm his pa," he said quietly. "That's who."

Loren's jaw dropped and the others looked equally astounded, except for Michaela who gave him an encouraging smile, more with her eyes than her lips. Meanwhile Zack looked up at him in wonder, seeing him as his father for the first time. Hank turned him around gently and steered him back into the saloon. No one followed and it was several minutes before Myra reappeared, taking Zack to the one vacant room at the back which had never been refilled after Lissy left and giving him some drawing materials to keep him busy.

The rest of the day dragged. The saloon was full, people no doubt even more curious about Zack now they knew he was Hank's son, but no one said a word. They drank and gazed about and eventually left, while Hank looked at the clock every ten minutes and longed for the last one to leave so he could lock the rest of the world out.

At last it was over. He locked the doors, took a bottle and a glass and sat down at one of the tables. The girls had retired and he stayed there alone, working his way down the bottle and thinking. He had no idea how to be a good father or what to do to give Zack a good life. All he knew was scorn and beatings, being made to feel ashamed and worthless. He was well aware that working in the saloon was no kind of life for the boy either, but at the same time he regretted sending him away after Clarice died. He sighed heavily and refilled his glass once again, but didn't pick it up. He heard quiet footsteps behind him, approaching slowly and then a hand touched his arm.

"What d'you want?" he asked.

Zack unrolled a large sheet of paper and laid it on the table. "For you, Pa," he said softly.

It was a picture of Clarice; every little detail perfect, drawn only with a thick pencil, but somehow capturing the light in her eyes, the soft curve of her lips, the way her hair curled softly around her face. Tears sprang into his eyes as he thought of the love they shared, which had in the end been more on his side than hers, and the boy they made whom Hank had spent twelve years avoiding and who had now called him 'Pa'. The tears spilled over and tracked down his cheeks into his beard. He was barely aware of Zack retreating quietly from the bar. He sniffed hard and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He hadn't heard Myra's silent footsteps after Zack left and almost jumped when she touched his shoulder.

"Hank?"

He slid the drawing further along the table so she could see it over his shoulder.

"Zack drew that?"

He nodded.

"Ya still miss her?" she asked, her voice full of sympathy.

"Not now, I just wish things coulda been different."

He turned sideways on the chair and looked up at her. Much to his surprise she slid her arms around his neck and lowered herself onto his lap. He wrapped both arms around her at once and hugged her tightly, pressing his face into her hair and catching a scent of that French perfume which she hardly ever wore any more. It was a long time since he'd been with her - months - and she felt so good, warm and soft in his arms. She had come to him and for the first time in as long as he could remember, it was the last thing on his mind. He took her to his room and drew her into bed, but simply held her, closed his eyes and slept.

Hank was up, scrubbed and dressed the next morning before Myra even woke. She opened her eyes as he was pulling his boots on.

"Y'alright, Hank?" she asked, sitting up slowly.

"Yeah." He smiled briefly.

"Goin' somewhere?"

"Yeah. I'll tell ya when I get back."

He left her there and went out. It was early still, but Michaela's horse was tied up outside the clinic and he guessed she was in. She was the only person he could think of who would know how to help. Being a know-it-all had its advantages, he thought wrily and crossed the street, the rolled up drawing of Clarice in his hand. He showed her the picture, told her Zack had drawn in and that it was his ma.

"I know I ain't gonna be the best father," Hank began. "I wanna try to give him a home, but I know he deserves better than sweepin' the saloon. What do I do now, Michaela?"

She told him about the art school in Denver she had asked about a place for Brian, mistakenly thinking he had a talent for drawing, when what she had seen had actually been Zack's work. She promised to send them a telegram and ask if Zack could take Brian's place and Hank accompanied her to the telegraph office to send it. Michaela dictated the message to Horace, explaining that Zack was a sweet boy, but a little different and that he had great talent. Hank listened and glowered at Horace, daring him to say anything derogatory.

The reply came from the school that very afternoon, saying they would be happy to welcome Zack as a pupil and that he would be well taken care of. They looked forward to receiving him as soon as his father was able to take him to Denver. Within days, the arrangements were made, Hank had bought Zack a whole new wardrobe and a fine piece of luggage to transport everything in. He booked tickets on the stagecoach for Saturday morning and it seemed that half the town turned out to see them off. Much to Hank's surprise, no one was condemning him for keeping his son hidden for years or saying he was a poor father. The only comments he heard were how lucky Zack was to be able to go to such a wonderful school and that Hank was doing the right thing, giving him the opportunity of a good future.

A couple of people shook his hand and Myra stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek briefly before stepping back until she stood by Horace, who put his hand on her shoulder. Hank turned away and lifted Zack into the coach before following and pulling the door closed. The hell with Horace. Right now there was something much more important to think about.


	32. Chapter 32

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Hank stayed in Denver for a week, making sure Zack settled into his new school without any problems. He was to live in a dormitory with three other boys, one of whom was deaf and dumb. The trio welcomed Zack like a brother and began showing him around immediately. The teachers were all very friendly too and advised Hank he could visit any time he liked and that they would take excellent care of his son. When he finally returned to Colorado Springs, he felt much happier about the whole situation and was confident he'd made the right decision for Zack.

He discovered on his return that Myra and Horace were closer than ever and consequently she drifted ever further away from him. Even during the nights he spent with her she was distant, her eyes averted or closed and it seemed that although her body was with him, her mind was elsewhere. As time went on it upset and angered him more and more and he almost welcomed the drought which drove him to make the decision to leave town just a week before Thanksgiving.

Horace had tried finding water with divining rods which he claimed had been a talent of the Bings for generations, but it didn't help him find it. Many of the men from town spent two days digging where Horace indicated and didn't find one drop. Hank packed up his wagon the day after, girls and all. Myra and Horace clung to each other until the last possible minute, while Hank thought with a hint of satisfaction that she would soon forget Horace and be his again once they got on their way to Oregon.

"Hank, please let Myra stay," Michaela begged, interfering as usual. "How can you do this? They're in love."

"So what?" spat Hank.

That was the sticking point. He loved Myra, but she loved Horace. Not for much longer. He led her over to the wagon and lifted her up onto the seat, then climbed up after her. A moment later they were moving and he stared grimly at the horse, doing his best to ignore Myra who twisted around in her seat, weeping and calling back to Horace that she loved him. She'd get over it soon enough he thought, forgetting that he hadn't managed to squash his feelings for her in however many years it had been.

For three days the wagon rolled slowly north-west, mostly in silence. Dotty and Melinda occasionally spoke quietly to each other in the back, but Myra said scarcely a word, huddling next to Hank on the seat, her arms wrapped around herself, face distant and miserable, every so often wet with tears. Hank tried talking to her a couple of times, but she answered in monosyllables or not at all.

"Talk to me, damn it!" he exclaimed at one point, halting the horse and turning towards her.

"What d'ya want me to say?" she said dully, turning tear-filled eyes on him.

Hank sighed heavily. "We're goin' to Oregon," he told her firmly.

"Fine." She dropped her eyes again.

"What makes ya think they ain't got a drought too?" Dotty spoke up from behind.

"Shut yer mouth!" snapped Hank. Exasperated he faced forwards, slapping the reins against the horse's flanks to get it moving again. They continued on for the rest of the day and made camp by a creek, or what had once been a creek. Now only a trickle of water made its way along the dried up bed, just enough to scoop up to drink and to water the horse, but nothing more.

Hank spent most of the night awake, thinking about their situation. Everyone was miserable and he began to wonder about leaving everything behind - his business, the townsfolk. He wouldn't say he could call any of them friends exactly, but he missed Jake and Loren and the regulars who came in to drink and play poker. He even missed Michaela in a way. She'd gone out of her way to help him with Zack, despite his meanness to her previously. Although he had been reluctant to accept her, he found he had developed an admiration for her and he wondered what she and everyone else were doing now. In addition he wondered why he was really so keen to leave. It seemed now that the main reason had been to have Myra to himself again, only he didn't have her. Her mind was back in Colorado Springs with Horace and she could barely bring herself to speak to him.

He rose at dawn and began hitching the horse up to the wagon, scraping up a shallow pan of gritty water to give the animal a drink along with its oats. Myra emerged from beneath the wagon where the girls had spent the night a moment later. He glanced at her briefly.

"It's early," she commented.

"We're goin' back," Hank said curtly.

"Back? To Colorado Springs?" Her eyes lit up with hope.

"Yeah." He turned away from her. "Wake the others; ya got five minutes."

The journey home was just as quiet as it had been on the way out, only this time Myra looked happy about it. Hank drove the horse, barely looking at her, resigned to the fact that she was going to throw herself into Horace's arms the minute they arrived.

When they reached the saloon most of the town appeared deserted and he realised it must be Thanksgiving. Everyone would be over at Grace's. The four of them walked over there and found everyone sitting around a long table made up of several smaller ones pushed together, a bunch of Indians mixed in with the townsfolk, the Reverend beginning to carve up the turkey. Myra left his side at once and ran to join Horace. He watched sadly for a moment and then shrugged it off and walked over to the table, finding a place between Jake and Matthew.

"What're ya doin' back here anyway?" Jake asked him after a minute.

"Lost a wheel is all," Hank said, pouring out generous cups of whiskey for himself, Jake and Loren.

As they dug into the Thanksgiving dinner, the heavens finally opened and put an end to the drought and most of the townsfolk danced around, soaked to the skin, celebrating while the food got wet and spoiled. Hank grabbed his bottle of whiskey, pulled a leg off the turkey and headed back to the saloon alone.

Myra and Horace's relationship continued to eat away at Hank through the winter. He guessed he could have cancelled her days off and refused to let her see him, but he didn't see the point. She'd just fall into that miserable lethargy that had taken over her when they briefly left town before Thanksgiving and at least while she was happy she was pleasant to be around. However, he could feel her slipping ever further away from him and it infuriated him that he couldn't do a thing about it. She had even begun refusing him when he went to her room at night; well, making excuses, but it boiled down to the same thing. First she had a stomach ache, then she wasn't feeling well, then it was her time of the month, not that this last had been a problem to her before now.

At New Year he had even spent an hour with Melinda to relieve the physical ache, the first time he'd ever been with her, but it had merely been a necessity; he hadn't got much pleasure out of it. Now it was February and he decided he wasn't going to take no for an answer any more. Myra had been forgetting she still had a contract saying she belonged to him.

He locked up the saloon and went to his room briefly, pulled his boots off and tossed his shirt into a corner, dragging his hands through his hair. He felt ridiculously nervous for some reason and that annoyed him. Myra was still managing to tie him in knots after all these years and he wished he could just see her as an employee again and stop yearning for her so much.

He went to her room now, opened the door quietly and slipped inside. She was in bed, wearing a pink nightdress, the quilt covering her to the waist.

"Myra," he said softly.

"Ya wanna talk to me about somethin', Hank?" she asked.

"No. That ain't what I want."

He knew she was going to come up with some excuse, it was just a matter of which one. She used a couple. When he joined her on the bed and slid his arms around her, telling her he missed her, she said she was tired. He pointed out she never used to be too tired for him and tried to kiss her. She braced her hand against his chest and said she wasn't feeling well.

"Ain't that a coincidence?" Hank said with a sigh. "I seem to recollect ya not feelin' well the last three times I've been wantin to be with ya."

Myra made one more protest, trying to push him away, complaining about her stomach. He wondered briefly if it was anything to do with her operation the year before and then decided as usual it was just an excuse. If she really had a problem, she wouldn't have been working that afternoon.

"Ya forgot who ya belong to," he said. "Yer mine, Myra. Don't forget that."

She gave in then, let him do what he wanted, but her response was half-hearted and her mind was elsewhere, her face turned away from him. He didn't sleep with her. There seemed no point staying when she would hold him with her arms, but not her heart.

A couple of days later a wagon-load of orphans looking for new homes arrived from New York, which Loren had previously read about in the Denver Herald. The Reverend had asked for them for some reason unknown to the rest of the town and he proceeded in trying to persuade some of the townsfolk to adopt them. None were keen, although Hank saw opportunity in one fifteen-year-old girl named Jennifer. She had a nice face and pretty hair and he guessed a scrub, some makeup and a change of clothes would make her appeal to the customers.

Jennifer called in at the saloon to talk to him about the job, seeming keen and not as innocent as she looked. He told her she could start that night if she wanted and she gazed around at the customers, then left, not having actually said yes or no. He glanced at Myra and was surprised to see a frown on her face. Could it be that she didn't like him suddenly showing an interest in someone else? He grinned to himself. Maybe Jennifer could be of more use than he previously thought.

The girl returned that evening and Hank sorted out a contract for her and took her to Myra's room, introducing them and asking Myra to fix her up ready to start work the following day. Then he left them to it and went back to the bar. The next morning as he sat on the porch smoking a cigar, Myra hurried out and he stopped her to ask about Jennifer, wondering what she really thought about her being taken on.

"I don't know if there's gonna be a new girl, Hank," she said.

"You ain't talked her out of it now, have ya?" he scowled.

"No, 'course not."

Hank got to his feet and went towards her. "Well, what is it then? Feelin' a little jealous? Feelin' like she might just take yer place?"

"No, it ain't that," sighed Myra.

"See, if she does come to work here, maybe I wouldn't need you no more," he added.

"What're ya talkin' about?" Myra looked up at him now, her eyes widening.

"Maybe I'll just tear up that contract of yours."

"Ya mean that?" Her eyes actually lit up now and he realised things weren't quite going the way he hoped. He had wanted her to be jealous of the younger girl, not like the idea that she might become Hank's new favourite, but it seemed she didn't care one bit.

"Yeah, I do," Hank replied, sounding sulky even to his own ears and mentally kicking himself.

He turned away from her and walked back inside, snatching up a whiskey bottle and pouring himself a large measure. He knew he was going to lose Myra, it was as plain as the nose on his face. He wished he hadn't spent so many years fooling about and had simply swallowed his fear of hurt and told her how he felt. If she hadn't had feelings for him in the beginning, then she'd been a damned good actress. In fact it was only since the grip epidemic a year ago that things had changed. Maybe there was still a chance. Maybe it was because she didn't know his feelings and she wanted more than she was getting. He sighed heavily. Was it worth taking the chance of telling her how he felt?

He thought about it for a while. Myra returned not long after and then went out again with the other two girls. He made his mind up. It wasn't as if he had anything to lose. Feeling a little silly, he went out the back of the saloon and picked the solitary yellow flower which had sprouted at the side of the corral. She had once said daisies were her favourite flower and he was sure he had heard Dotty mention recently that a yellow daisy had sprung up out back. He went into Myra's room then, laid it on the pillow and sat down on the bed to wait for her.

He waited an hour, almost changing his mind and hurrying out of there a dozen times, convinced he was only going to make a fool of himself and that she wouldn't respond the way he wanted. Then he would think about her leaving for good and tell himself he was doing the only thing he could do that might make a difference.

The door opened suddenly and she halted on the threshold in surprise.

"Oh, Hank, what're ya doin'?"

"I brought that for ya," he said, indicating the flower, caught off guard and suddenly not knowing what to say to her. She gave it only a brief glance before walking into the room and stopping in front of her mirror.

"Hank, I got somethin' to tell ya," she said. "Ya know that girl? She ain't comin' back."

"She got a contract," Hank told her.

"No. I'm stayin' on extra in her place." Myra went back to the door and leaned against the jamb, looking at him. He couldn't read anything in her face, but surely if she'd taken on Jennifer's contract herself it was because she didn't want to leave him after all?

"I know why yer doin' this," he said with a hint of a smile.

"Why?" prompted Myra.

"Must be...'cause ya got feelin's for me."

"No, Hank, that ain't it. I just don't want her to go through what I did."

"Whaddya mean?" He was stunned. What had she gone through? Hadn't they always been close? At least until Horace stuck his oar in. Had he been completely blind all along? Didn't they say love was blind?

"Remember how ya said I belong to you?" Myra went on. "Well, you're wrong. I love Horace. I work for you, but I belong to him."

"He ain't any kinda man, not like me," grunted Hank.

"What kinda man makes his woman spend the night with other men?" demanded Myra.

"That's different, Myra, it's business. I went to all this trouble to show ya." He hesitated before continuing. He'd got it so wrong. He'd considered ripping up her contract all those years ago and keeping her to himself, but not done it because he thought the piece of paper would be sure to keep her with him, when all it had done in the end was push her away. Why couldn't she have said something then? But if she had, would he have listened?

"I love ya," he added before he could stop himself. It seemed pointless now and as soon as it was out of his mouth, he wished he could take it back when he heard her reply.

"I feel sorry for ya, Hank. Ya don't know what love is."

That was it. She turned and strode off down the corridor, leaving him sitting on her bed. Much as he hated the analogy, which was the sort of thing you got in dime novels or so he'd heard, it felt like she had reached into his chest, pulled his heart out and walked off with it. If only he had told her how he felt years ago; even one year ago might have changed everything. Now it was too late.


	33. Chapter 33

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Hank spent the rest of the day pouring whiskey down his neck and wallowing in self-pity, then fell into bed, waking the next morning with a stinking headache and a foul temper. He felt stupid and humiliated for telling Myra his feelings when it had become so clear in the few minutes of their conversation that she didn't feel the same. He must have sounded desperate and about as much of a man as Horace was. He was furious with himself and his anger successfully squashed his hurt. He pulled himself together and got on with making money, organising more poker games and subsequently more customers for the girls.

Myra kept out of his way a lot of the time for the next few weeks, but when he did deal with her he found himself being unnecessarily cruel, subconsciously punishing her for rejecting him. Myra began to look anxious and miserable most of the time again, counting off the days each week to her day off when she could spend a few hours with Horace and every time she returned, Hank treated her even less sympathetically.

It was May when everything came to a head. A visitor to town came into the saloon the day before one of Hank's poker games, introducing himself to Hank as John O'Malley and making it obvious he had plenty of money to spend when he paid in advance for as much whiskey as he could drink, a room for the night and some entertainment the following day. Hank decided to give Myra to him, but it seemed she and the other two girls recognised the man and were whispering that 'Dandy' O'Malley was bad news.

"He's the one that hurt that girl in Manitou," Myra moaned as Hank drew her towards O'Malley.

Hank ignored her protests and virtually shoved her into the man's arms, following which she shared several whiskeys with him, her expression one of fear. However, nothing untoward happened and O'Malley went to his room that night, taking up his business with Myra the following afternoon. She made more attempts to get out of it, using her 'feeling sick' excuse and Hank angrily pushed her towards O'Malley again and left them to it.

The poker game started a little while later and the crowded saloon was filled with noise, drowning out any sounds coming from Myra's room which would have alerted Hank to the fact that Myra had been right to worry. It wasn't until Sully suddenly charged into the bar from Myra's room, carrying her in his arms, that Hank realised the girls had been telling the truth.

"What the hell's goin' on?" he demanded, rising quickly from the poker table and blocking Sully's way.

"He cut me," whimpered Myra, indicating her lower leg which was bleeding heavily.

"Outta my way!" Sully stepped around Hank and hurried out of the door and across the street towards the clinic. Hank ran out after him, drawing his gun.

O'Malley had already got on his horse and was heading off at a gallop, too far away to hit, but Hank fired several times anyway, a warning to the man not to come back. He reholstered the gun, cursing himself silently. He should have listened to her. Now she was hurt just because he was mad with himself for behaving like a fool in front of her.

He hovered outside the saloon, staring across at the clinic and worrying about Myra. Michaela wasn't even there and Sully and Colleen were having to manage until she returned. He knew Michaela had gone out campaigning since she had taken it upon herself to run against Jake for the position of mayor, which the town had decided it needed at their last meeting. Actually Horace had put Michaela forward, thinking if she won she would ban prostitution and Myra would be free. The trouble was, Michaela was now too busy to attend to her patients properly and she didn't have a hope of winning since only men could vote and they would be putting their mark against Jake's name.

Michaela and Dorothy pulled up in a wagon outside the clinic moments later, met immediately by Sully. Michaela rushed inside and Hank returned to the poker game, hoping Myra wasn't seriously injured.

Myra came back to the saloon the next day, limping badly and using a walking stick, grimacing with pain. Melinda and Dotty rushed to help her to her room and came out later to tell Hank she had twenty-seven stitches in her leg and that Michaela would be expecting him to pay for the treatment in the sum of five dollars. Hank sent Dotty to pay, relieved Michaela hadn't charged him a dollar a stitch on this occasion.

Myra barely set foot out of her room until the day of the election and much to everyone's surprise Michaela didn't lose by all that much, although she did lose. Sully had deeded a small portion of his homestead to many of the women in town, giving them the right to vote and Myra was one of these people. Horace gazed at her adoringly as she passed him on her way to the voting box and Hank sighed heavily when her smile was quickly replaced by a scowl as she walked by him.

When it was announced later that Jake was to be mayor it was no great surprise and Hank was relieved there would be no attempt to ban his girls working, which Michaela would have done. However, Myra and Horace had been counting on that and both looked upset by the result.

Hank poured out drinks for everyone and then leaned on the bar, eyes narrowing as Myra suddenly headed towards him. He wondered what she intended to say to him. Her face was set in an expression of determination, but she was shaking visibly and when she spoke her voice shook too.

"I quit!" she said.

"Ya can't quit, Myra," Hank said with a sigh.

"Let me see my contract."

He hesitated a moment, then retrieved the box from beneath the counter which held the contracts, picking out Myra's and flicking it at her, thinking it a little pointless as she couldn't read it. Hands trembling, she tore the document in half.

"Give me that," Hank demanded, annoyed and somewhat surprised. "It's still good," he added, when she threw it back at him.

"I don't care!" Myra said fiercely, still shaking from head to foot. "You can call the law and ya can throw me in jail. Go ahead. I would rather be in jail the rest of my life than keep on workin' for you!"

She walked off across the room to Horace and Michaela and all three left the saloon together, leaving Hank stunned. He hadn't really thought she would just leave like that. They had been so close for years and even after she met Horace mostly things were alright. It had only really gone bad since he went and spilled his guts to her and then spent the last few weeks lashing out at her at every opportunity, just because he couldn't handle her response. As usual he only had himself to blame and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

Myra returned later that night and went straight to bed without speaking to Hank or the other girls. He had expected her not to come back and now assumed her walking off had merely been a spur of the moment thing and that she had changed her mind. However, when he went to her room in the morning, deciding to try and talk to her, he found her belongings all spread out on the bed in piles, some already in a suitcase.

"Whaddya think yer doin'?" he asked.

"Packin'," Myra said.

"And goin' where?"

"Anywhere but here, Hank." She carried on sorting out her things, not looking at him and merely repeated what she had said the day before, that she didn't care if he had her arrested.

"What're ya doin' with this stuff?" he demanded, trying to cover up his hurt with anger.

"These I'm leavin'," she said, indicating one pile. "These I'm takin'." She touched the case.

The bottle of French perfume lay in the unwanted pile in the gold coloured silk bag Myra kept it in to keep the dust off the glass. Hank picked it up and took it out of the bag.

"I gave you this," he reminded her.

"I don't want it."

"It come all the way from Paris, France, it cost me ten dollars, you keep it!" He tried pressing it into her hand, wanting her to keep what had at the time been a special gift, but she jerked her hand away, refusing it. Apparently it meant nothing to her any more.

In the end, Myra left with nothing but her little red silk purse. Hank lost his temper, pointing out he'd bought everything anyway and she just left without it and walked out into the street where Horace and Michaela were waiting as if they'd arranged for her to leave at that precise moment. He stormed out onto the porch to watch, wondering where she thought she was going to go. Live in sin with Horace maybe? No one would be surprised; she was a whore after all.

Michaela marched towards him then and demanded Myra's belongings, annoying him even more than Myra had herself and he charged back into the saloon, gathered everything up and took them outside. He just couldn't help himself. He began throwing the things at her feet in the dirt, first the case and then the items that had been stuffed into a bag, knowing he was behaving like a child who had had its favourite toy taken away and completely unable to control himself.

Myra's face took on an expression of both shock and embarrassment, her whole body flinching each time something else hit the ground, until he stormed off back to the saloon. Then she fell to her knees and began to gather things up. Hank didn't see what happened next. He went to the bar and poured himself a large glass of whiskey, gulped it down in one and refilled it. Melinda and Dotty were both peering out of the window and after a moment he called Dotty over to him.

"What's goin' on?" he asked.

"Myra's things are all in the street. She left 'em."

"What?" frowned Hank. After Michaela coming and demanding Myra's things, now she hadn't even taken them?

"Looked like Horace wouldn't let her pick them up," Dotty added. "He pulled her away."

"Go and get them," grunted Hank.

"What for?"

"Just do it!"

Dotty went out immediately and returned minutes later with the case and the bag and went to put them in Myra's room. The saloon wasn't yet open and when Dotty was out of the way he went to Myra's room himself. He closed the door after him and for a moment stood looking around. The room was just as she left it, only it felt curiously empty now that she wasn't going to come back to it.

Hank opened up the case and began looking through her things, wondering what to do with them. They wouldn't fit the other girls as Myra was tiny and he didn't like the idea of them wearing her clothes anyway, but he didn't want to throw them away either. For the moment he hung them back up behind the curtain which formed her closet and shoved the empty case under the bed.

The bag held smaller items including her under garments, nightdress, hairbrush and other things. The nightdress smelled of the fancy soap she used and the soft scent of her skin. Hank's annoyance evaporated and he simply felt lost as he accepted that she was never going to come back.

He put the hairbrush back on the chest where the mirror stood and tipped the last few items out of the bag - some stockings, hair decorations and makeup. The perfume was missing. Neither the bottle nor the little gold bag were there. He frowned, wondering if someone had grabbed that from the pile in the street before Dotty went out. He opened the door and called her.

"Yes, Hank?" Dotty leaned against the wall of the corridor opposite him.

"Did anyone go near this stuff when it was in the street?"

"No. Me and Mel were watchin' till I went out."

"Ya sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Ya didn't leave anythin'?"

"No, Hank, I didn't leave anythin'. What's the matter with you?" she frowned.

"There was a bottle of perfume. A glass bottle in a kinda yellow bag."

"Didn't see it," she shrugged.

"Or maybe ya took it for yerself." He took a step forward and grabbed her arm. "Ya steal it, Dotty?" he demanded.

"No!" She wrenched her arm free, red marks showing on her flesh from his fingers. "I ain't a thief, Hank! If that's what ya think of me, I'll go an' all! I don't know what happened to the damned perfume, maybe Myra took it herself. Who cares?" She turned and flounced off up the corridor, leaving him standing in the doorway completely at a loss.

Myra wouldn't have taken it. She'd said she'd never wear it again if she lived to be ninety and she hadn't been able to wait to get away from him. Why would she take something that had been a special gift, a peace offering almost, for one of his many episodes of cruelty after she got sick. A reminder of someone she looked at almost as if she hated now. But where else could it be?


	34. Chapter 34

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Myra and Horace didn't waste any time once she left the saloon. She took a room upstairs in the clinic and they announced their engagement party was to take place at Grace's after church on Sunday. Hank saw her once across the street before then and she barely looked like Myra any more, wearing a dowdy grey dress with a lace collar and her pretty hair scraped into a bun at the back of her neck. He couldn't help wondering if Horace had picked that dress for her in an effort to make her look as different as possible from before. Somehow he wouldn't have thought she'd go for grey; she liked pink and yellow and she was supposed to be free to do what she wanted now, wasn't she? And yet Dotty said Horace wouldn't _let_ her pick her things up. He snorted into his whiskey. Hadn't she said to him that he couldn't make her do anything again? Already another man was giving her orders.

Saturday night he began drinking with Jake and Loren, but when they left the saloon he carried on until he fell asleep slumped over the poker table. When he woke with a pounding head and bleary eyes, a half-empty bottle standing in front of him, he poured another shot. Myra was getting engaged in about an hour and there was nothing he could do about it. He'd driven her away and she probably hated him now. It was all he could think about and he continued drinking in the hopes that the alcohol would blot out his thoughts, even though he knew from past experience that it didn't work. By the time the bottle was empty all that it had served to do was distort what was real and what wasn't in his mind and he became convinced that even at this late stage he could put a stop to Myra becoming Mrs Bing. He snatched up a fresh bottle and lurched out of the swing doors onto the porch, leaning against a post outside for a few moments, his head spinning. The church bells were ringing and he guessed they were all coming out about now and heading for Grace's. He stayed where he was, taking a few more swigs from the bottle and ordering his shaky legs to keep holding him up.

Fifteen minutes later he stumbled over to the cafe, just in time to hear Myra answering someone's question about when the wedding would be.

"We're waitin' for Horace's kin to answer, but if they can make it, we're hopin' the last Sunday of the month."

"I'll be sure to put it on my calendar," Hank slurred. "Assumin' I'm invited."

Several people gasped and everyone turned to look at him.

"As a matter of fact you ain't, Hank," said Horace.

"What kinda gratitude is that, Horace? It's the least ya could do after stealin' what was mine!" exclaimed Hank, glancing down suddenly. He was sure he'd had a bottle in his hand. He must have put it down somewhere, or dropped it. Hell of a waste.

"She never was yours, Hank," averred Horace.

"She was mine plenty of times," grinned Hank.

He wasn't altogether sure what he was saying by then, only that everyone was staring at him with growing horror and Michaela was chastising him for what he said, then Jake told him he was making a fool of himself. He didn't much care what they thought. He only cared what Myra thought and he'd already made himself look a fool in front of her, so what did it matter? Grace ordered him to get out of the cafe now and his temper rose.

"Not till I give the bride her weddin' present," he said, taking a couple of unsteady steps forward. In his mind he was sure it wouldn't take much to make her walk away from Horace, but just in case he pulled his gun out and began firing it into the air. Five bullets, leaving one in the gun. People screamed and gasped and ran to hide under the tables. All except Myra who began to walk towards him.

"Put the gun away, Hank," she begged.

"Get on your knees!" he barked at her. She was still his. He wasn't letting Horace take her away. "_Now!"_ he roared at her.

Obediently she dropped to her knees in front of him, looking like a little mouse in a brown dress and grey hat.

"There's somethin' ya need before you get married, Myra," he said. The words just seemed to pour out of his mouth while his thoughts struggled to get in order behind a fog of whiskey. "Ya need someone to give you away and that ain't never gonna happen. I'll kill you first."

He aimed the gun at her. Maybe it was the only way to stop her marrying Horace. There was one bullet left. He'd made sure of it. One was enough to do the job if you aimed it right. His hand was shaking with the drink he'd consumed and the weight of the gun. He'd never known it to be that heavy. He couldn't seem to keep it in line with Myra's head. Maybe he'd do better to turn it on himself. Then he wouldn't have to see her every day with someone else. He wouldn't have to see her desperate face looking up at him right now. He didn't really want to hurt her.

He didn't see the chunk of wood leave Sully's hand and come hurtling through the air towards him. He just felt it crash into his right temple and then everything went black.

Hank opened his eyes and looked around him. He was in the clinic with several people looking down at him; Michaela, Sully, Jake and Loren.

"What the heck's goin' on?" he muttered. He'd drunk way too much; must have passed out or something. Then Loren reported that Sully had knocked him out to keep him from shooting Myra and it all came flooding back. He rolled off the examination table quickly, his feet landing on the floor, staggering as his legs threatened to give way. His head hurt and he felt as sick as a dog. All he wanted to do was get back to the saloon, go to bed and forget about everything.

Somehow he made it across the street and into the saloon, closing the doors behind him. Dotty and Melinda appeared at once and he sent them away, telling them to spend the day doing whatever they wanted as he didn't intend opening up. Then he sat down at a table in the corner and closed his eyes, thinking he had better sit still a minute before continuing to his room. The room was whirling around him and he didn't think he'd make it.

The day crawled by and Hank barely moved. Gradually darkness fell and he continued to sit there at the table, his head resting on his hand. It felt as if someone was driving a nail into it and he'd been outside several times to throw up the whiskey he'd spent most of the morning drinking. He must have really overdone it to be this bad, he thought. He'd turn out like Jake if he wasn't careful.

Just as he was thinking about going to bed Michaela appeared, saying she wanted to check on him, that he may have a concussion. The last thing he wanted was to be poked at by the doctor when he was feeling so terrible and he snapped at her to leave him alone. When he thought about it, she probably had something to do with Myra leaving anyway, filling her head with ideas above her station and making her think she could go and be a wife and mother. He said as much.

"Myra left you because she loved Horace," Michaela said.

"What d'ya know about love, Michaela, ya never been with a man!" he snarled.

She went into one of her speeches, except much to his surprise it was more of a shouting, telling him what she thought of him before she stormed out. He let his head sink back into his hand, relieved that it was silent again. If only his head would stop hurting. Slowly he got up and went to bed, but the pain was too bad to let him sleep. He lay awake, clutching his head, occasionally thinking another drink would help only he felt so sick he doubted he'd keep it down. Every time he moved he felt dizzy and he couldn't see properly. As daylight came and he looked around the room, everything seemed fuzzy. He sat up and the room spun, the blinding headache continuing to plague him.

Much as Hank hated to admit it, he needed help. This wasn't just a hangover. He'd never felt like this in his life. Michaela had said something about a concussion and he remembered her son Brian hitting his head not too long ago and falling into a coma. She'd had to cut into his brain to save him. He felt a prickle of fear now and slowly got up, making his way down the corridor and through the bar. When he looked outside, Michaela's horse was already outside the clinic and he stepped out onto the porch, leaning on the wall to keep himself on his feet. He had to get across there and ask her to help him.

He could barely see where he was going and he made his way along the saloon wall. He wasn't going to make it across the street without help and he decided to sit down for a moment and see if anyone came along who would lead him over there. He slithered down the wall and a second later his head hit the ground. He remembered nothing more.

It was like being in some strange dream. He felt as if he didn't belong to his body any more and everything he saw and heard, which was only scraps of things, seemed to come from a great distance. He kept seeing Myra in his mind and once or twice heard her voice. Most of it was only the sound of her and not actual words, but he picked out one or two things.

"I remember the first time he smiled and told me I was beautiful. It was the first time I ever felt I was."

"I have to make my own decisions and this is one of them."

That last statement was in response to another voice - Horace's. "You're makin' me look like a fool. I am ordering you not to go."

Gradually other voices came and went and he tried to place them.

Jake: "It wasn't the same without you."

Loren: "I plan to replace all the whiskey we drank and maybe a few extra bottles."

"I hope ya come back to us." Who was that? Grace? Grace hated him, especially since he'd accused her of poisoning him once and almost ruined her business.

Then Horace again. "I'm gonna marry Myra...come to your senses...I hope ya find somethin' that can make ya happy."

Finally Michaela, pouring out her heart, how she was full of love and passion, but scared to let it out lest 'he' didn't respond the way she hoped. She went on and on and Hank heard most of this, feeling as if he were slowly waking from a deep sleep. Odd that she would choose him to confide in when the last thing he remembered her saying before was that she wouldn't care if she never saw his face again.

"Michaela?" he croaked. It seemed like his voice hadn't been used for a long time and his mouth was so dry he could barely move his lips. He opened his eyes slowly and discovered that everything was normal; nothing was blurred or swaying.

"Hank!" She hurried to the side of the bed and leaned over him, grasping his hand. She had tears in her eyes. She touched his head and then brought him some water, carefully pouring a drop at a time into his mouth. Then he closed his eyes again. He felt so tired. Must be that dream; dreams always made you feel like you hadn't slept well.

When Hank woke again the next morning, Michaela was already in the room. He closed his eyes again and listened to her moving around while he tried to remember exactly what had happened. It all seemed as clear now as if he were watching it happen through someone else's eyes. He'd gotten drunk, more drunk than he'd ever been in his life. He ruined Myra's engagement party, threatened to shoot her and got himself knocked out by that sorry Indian lover, Sully, who actually probably did him a favour. He didn't know how long he'd been in bed at the clinic and he wasn't sure whether the visitors had been real or dreamed up. He opened his eyes and found Michaela looking at him.

"Hank, how are you feeling?"

"Like a wagon hit me. Is Myra here? Was she here?"

Michaela frowned a little now. "She's staying in one of the other rooms."

"But was she in here?" Hank repeated. At that moment he saw Myra appear in the doorway. She was wearing blue and her hair was all falling loose from its pins. She looked like she hadn't slept for a week.

"Hey," she said softly, coming into the room.

Michaela glanced from one to the other and then moved away from the bed. "I'll leave you for a minute," she said and walked out of the door.

"How are ya?" Myra asked, coming to the side of the bed.

"I'll live," Hank said with a sigh. He licked his lips. "You were here."

"Ya knew that?" She looked surprised.

"Yeah. I heard ya." At least that hadn't been a dream. He just couldn't fathom why she'd want to come and see him after what he'd done to her. He wouldn't have blamed her if she never wanted to see him again. No wonder Horace had been giving her orders; that couldn't have pleased him one bit.

"I wanted to make sure ya were gonna be alright," she said now.

"Even after...?" He grimaced, unable to finish the sentence. If he'd looked a fool in front of her before, it was nothing compared to how he'd behaved at her engagement party.

"It doesn't matter, Hank," she said softly.

"I never woulda pulled the trigger," he told her.

"I know that."

"It'd have been better if I turned it on myself," he added, remembering thinking that right before Sully hit him.

"Don't say that." Myra had tears in her eyes as she reached down and grasped his hand.

"Well, I didn't, so..." He shrugged one shoulder and squeezed her hand hard. "Good luck, Myra."

"Thank you," she whispered.

Hank pulled his hand free and turned his head away, closing his eyes and waiting for her to leave. It was over. Now he just had to find a way to carry on without her.


	35. Chapter 35

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Hank remained in bed at the clinic for a week before Michaela would let him go. For once he laid there and did as he was told, feeling somewhat coccooned in the recovery room, safe from having to face reality quite yet. Myra didn't come to see him again and he was glad. Better to start trying to forget about her and not read anything into the fact that she'd sat by his bedside for days, waiting for him to wake up. That was just the way she was. Her heart was often too soft for her own good and she would never hurt anyone unless she was forced to, even if they'd threatened to kill her.

Finally he was well enough to return to the saloon. Dotty and Melinda had been regular visitors for the past few days, bringing him meals from Grace's and filling him in on what had been happening at the saloon. Feeling guilty for helping themselves and dishing out free whiskey before, Loren and Jake had opened up every day, admittedly later than Hank would have done, but they had closed their own businesses at four o'clock and run the saloon instead until midnight.

Now Melinda brought him some fresh clothes and waited to walk back to the saloon with him. It was morning and the place was closed, but a number of people waved or shouted out greetings to him as he crossed the street and Jake emerged from his barber's shop and hurried over.

"How ya feelin'?" he asked, reaching out to shake Hank's hand.

"Stupid," grunted Hank.

"Dr Mike patched you up pretty good. Shame she can't do much with yer common sense," Jake said with a grin.

Hank grimaced. "Mel says you and Loren've been runnin' the saloon," he said. "Keepin' me from goin' outta business."

"Figured we owed ya," Jake admitted. "The day you...uh...went into a coma, we all helped ourselves."

"So I heard." Hank shrugged now. "Don't matter. Least the place is still standin'."

Jake nodded. "Well, I guess I'll see ya tonight. Me and Loren'll be in for a coupla drinks." He left them and returned to his shop.

"Everyone missed ya," Melinda told him as they entered the bar.

"I doubt that," Hank said with a sigh. "Do somethin' for me, will ya?"

"Sure, Hank."

"Get rid of Myra's things. She don't want 'em and they're clutterin' the room up. I'm gonna get a couple new girls in."

"I'll do it now," Melinda agreed and walked off quickly. Hank sat down at one of the tables, but for once he didn't pick up a bottle. He thought about getting on with things, taking a trip to Denver to see Zack and find some new talent, organising another poker game. Things to keep him busy so he wouldn't keep on thinking about Myra.

The following week he took the stagecoach to Denver and spent a whole day with Zack at his school. The boy was doing well, his drawing coming on in leaps and bounds and Hank found himself swelling with pride. At least there was one good thing in his life and he was determined to hold onto it.

He found a hotel room for the night and the next day went looking for girls. The first proved easy to find. An obvious candidate almost ran into him in the street. She was wearing a rather well worn frilly skirt and chemise, carrying a heavy-looking bag, her face pale, tired and miserable. Her almost black hair hung loose and tangled around her shoulders and her brown eyes were wide and appealing.

"Hey!" he exclaimed as she narrowly missed crashing into him.

"Sorry, Mister."

She made to walk around him, but he put his hand out and touched her shoulder.

"What's yer name?"

"Louisa."

"Ya lookin' for work?" he asked.

"That obvious?" she said ruefully.

"I got a saloon in Colorado Springs, a ways from here," Hank said. "Need some new girls. You interested?"

"Sure." Her face brightened.

"Ain't ya gonna ask what the pay is or nothin'?"

Louisa shook her head. "Long as I get somethin'. I got nothin' right now. My boss died last week; I ain't got a roof over my head or money to buy food. I'll take whatever's goin'."

Hank nodded. "Two-fifty a time," he said. "Plus a room, food and clothes when ya need 'em. Who was yer boss?"

"Fella called Red Burrows."

Hank snorted. "Finally bit the dust, did he?"

"Ya know Red?" asked Louisa.

"Yeah, I grew up in Denver. Ya got somethin' else to wear for travellin'?" he asked.

"Nothin' better than this," she sighed, indicating her outfit.

Hank pulled some money out and gave her ten dollars. "Go get somethin' nice. Meet me later for some food; is that cafe still there, on the other side of town?"

"Yeah. Thanks for this!" Louisa looked at the ten dollars in disbelief and stuffed the notes into her purse.

"See ya in a couple hours," said Hank and began to walk away.

"Hey!" exclaimed Louisa.

He paused and looked over his shoulder.

"Gonna tell me yer name?" she asked with a smile.

"Hank Lawson."

"Nice to meet ya, Hank."

By the time he met Louisa later at the cafe, Hank hadn't been successful in finding a second girl, but as the pair of them sat eating meatloaf, another girl caught his eye as she sat down at the next table alone. She had glossy brown curls held back with combs and was wearing a very smart outfit of red and grey striped fabric. She didn't look like a whore, but then Louisa glanced across too and the pair smiled at each other briefly.

"Ya know her?" Hank asked.

"A little. She started workin' for Red a week before he died. Name's Emma."

"She lookin' for work too?"

"I guess. I ain't seen her in the last few days."

Hank got up and crossed to the girl's table.

"Emma, is it?"

"That's right."

"I'm Hank. Ya wanna come and join Louisa and me?" he asked.

She eyed him a little sceptically. "I guess that depends what yer after." She glanced over at Louisa and then looked up at him again.

Hank grinned. "I'm her new boss. Thought ya might be lookin' for work too, is all."

"Oh! Well, then, I'd be happy to join ya." She got up at once and followed him back to the other table.

Hank ordered another plate of meatloaf for her while the two girls exchanged a few words. Then after they all finished eating, he offered Emma a job too.

"I'd be glad to accept," she said.

"Yer dressed like you ain't short of money," Hank commented.

"Oh, I made this," said Emma, indicating the outfit, which looked as if it could have come from the finest dress store. "I'm gonna be a dressmaker some day. Just need to get the money first to get started. No offence, but whorin's not my first choice of work, it's just the best paid."

Hank raised his eyebrows. She was feisty and honest, not to mention attractive. He didn't fancy his chances at getting her to sign a contract, but it wasn't his priority just at that moment. She'd liven the saloon up a bit and he wouldn't mind betting Jake would be first in line.

Hank took the two girls to the old boarding house, intending for them to leave on the stage the next morning. He wondered if Mrs Brady still ran the place and was surprised to find that she did; a little rounder, a little greyer, but otherwise just the same.

"Why, Hank! I never thought I'd see ya in these parts again!" she exclaimed.

Hank quickly arranged rooms for the girls and sent them on upstairs, then joined the woman in the kitchen for coffee and large slabs of cake. She was eager to find out what he'd been doing over the years and prompted him with one question after another.

"What happened to that blonde girl?" she asked after a while. "Clarice, was it? Always thought ya coulda done better."

"She died, five years after we left," Hank said.

"Oh, no, I'm so sorry," Mrs Brady groaned. "And now I've put my foot in it."

"No, ya ain't. It was a long time ago," said Hank. "We had a son, Zack. He's here in Denver, goin' to art school. Doin' real well."

He stayed talking to Mrs Brady for an hour before he finally took off and returned to the hotel, asking her to tell the girls he would collect them at eight-thirty in the morning to catch the stagecoach.

The three of them arrived in Colorado Springs on Saturday morning and Hank lifted the girls' bags down from the roof, then led them over to the saloon and introduced them to Melinda and Dotty. The pair went to settle into their rooms and Hank got to work on some new contracts.

"Ya know what ya can do with that," Emma said when he walked into her room - Myra's old room - with the document. She was in the process of changing out of her travelling outfit and had several buttons on her bodice undone. "I'm signin' nothin'. Ya want me, ya got me, but I told ya I'm savin' for my dress-makin' business. Once I get enough money, I'm off."

Hank frowned. He had always called the shots himself with the girls and didn't like being talked to like that. On the other hand, he knew Emma was going to appeal to the customers, probably more than anyone else since Lissy.

"I guess it depends, Hank..." she went on, shrugging the dress off her shoulders to reveal the finest chemise he'd ever seen; virtually transparent, it was. "...on how much ya want me workin' for ya."

Hank couldn't help grinning. His head might still be in a turmoil over Myra, but he wasn't dead from the neck down.

"Why don't I give you a trial, of say, a month, and see how it goes?" he suggested.

Emma's cheeks dimpled and she turned away from him to take another item of clothing out of her bag, giving him a fine view of her shapely rear clad in silk bloomers.

"That sounds just fine," she said.

Smirking, he left her to it and went to get Louisa to sign on the dotted line. Unlike the others, she could read a little and peered at the document for several minutes while he waited impatiently.

"Five years?" she queried. "Well, I guess that gives me security." She read the rest and apparently couldn't find anything to complain about. She signed her name laboriously in curly writing and gave him the sheet of paper and the pen back. He left her then and went into the bar, looking forward to opening up to see what the locals made of the two new girls. He guessed they were going to be pretty busy.

As expected, Jake couldn't wait to get his hands on Emma. He'd seen them getting off the stage and was actually waiting outside the saloon door when Hank opened it.

"You're keen," muttered Hank. "Fancy the new talent?"

"Where'd ya find 'em?" asked Jake.

"Denver. Where'd ya think?"

"Here." Jake shoved five dollars into his hand and made a beeline for Emma.

All four girls earned their keep throughout Saturday, but on Sunday the saloon was quiet, with few customers in and the girls on their day off. As soon as the last drinker left, Hank headed for Emma's room. She was voluptuous and warm and fun and he enjoyed himself, but he was too aware that he was in Myra's old room and Myra wasn't there. He left Emma an hour later and returned to his own room to sleep, thinking that if he was going to spend time with her in the future, he'd take her to his bed instead of going to hers.

It was another week before he saw Myra again. He was always watching out for her around the town, finding it impossible not to, but it seemed that she spent her days at the telegraph office with Horace and he never seemed to see her walking between that and the clinic, even though the clinic was across from the saloon. However, eventually he ran into her outside Loren's when he went to stock up on cigars. She had just come out carrying a basket of things she'd bought and she stepped towards him at once.

"Hey, Hank, I've been meanin' to talk to ya," she said.

"About what?" He avoided looking at her, surprised by how uncomfortable he felt.

"My weddin', I'm invitin' ya."

He shook his head. How could she think he would want to go and watch her tie herself to someone else? He realised his pretense of getting on with things was just that - a pretense - and he was still hurt, still longing for her.

"Don't ask me to come," he said quietly, stepping up onto the store's porch to move past her.

"But, Hank, you're as close to family as I got here." She put her hand out, touching the lower part of his chest, making him step back off the porch again quickly.

"I can't do it, Myra," he sighed. She looked disappointed and he touched her arm lightly before he made his escape into the store.

"Hank," Loren greeted him.

"Mornin', Loren." He couldn't remember for the life of him what he'd gone in for.

"Well? Ya gonna buy somethin'?" prompted Loren. No one else was in the store and he stared at Hank expectantly.

"Yeah." Hank glanced around, hoping something would remind him of what he wanted. "Cigars!" he exclaimed.

"Well, ya know where they are," frowned Loren.

Hank turned away and grabbed half a dozen from the jar on the shelf nearby, then went back to the counter to pay.

"Are you alright?" asked Loren.

"Yeah." He dropped the coins onto the counter and left the store quickly.

He returned to the saloon and sank onto the chair he always left on the porch, propped his feet up on the railing and lit one of the cigars. It was a long time since he had done that and it was about all he felt like doing at that moment. Myra asking him to her wedding had shaken him and brought back all the pain he had thought he had begun to forget. Now he was far too aware that it was only six more days until she became Mrs Myra Bing.


	36. Chapter 36

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Sunday came around far too quickly for Hank. He rose early, seeing no point staying in bed when he hadn't slept a wink. He dragged on some clothes and went to sit in the bar alone, accompanied by a cigar and a bottle, watching the hands of the clock crawl around towards two which was the time of the wedding.

He had no plans to open the saloon that day, guessing most people would be going to the celebration. The girls were all going, even though Louisa and Emma didn't know Myra. Emma had helped Dotty and Melinda with the dress they had made for Myra and she had extended her invite to the two new girls. They weren't actually going to the church, but would be attending the party afterwards which was to be held at Grace's.

The four of them kept out of Hank's way much to his relief and after a while he heard them all go out. He glanced at the clock for the hundredth time and noted it was one-forty-five. It would soon be over. He tried to tell himself that it was a good thing for Myra that she was happy; that she had a new life; that he was glad for her. It was what she wanted, but all of that didn't make him feel any better or any less lost. He got up from the table, snatched up his glass and tossed the remains of the whiskey in it down his throat, walking over to the bar. He wasn't drunk yet and didn't plan to get that way. He was too concerned that he might forget himself and go and do something stupid again, although he guessed it would be difficult to surpass, or even equal, what he'd done when she got engaged. He leaned on the bar, kicking his boot into the bottom of the counter and hanging his head. Ten minutes now and she'd be married.

He began remembering things that had happened during the years he had known her. Until the last few months, she had always been sweet and caring towards him and for the most part he had just used her, punished her for things that weren't her fault and even threatened to kill her. How could he have imagined she might love him back? Even after everything, she'd invited him to her wedding, the most important day of her life, and he'd turned her down. The least he could do was support her, let her know he was happy for her, even though at that moment every fibre of him wished it was him she was promising herself to instead of Horace. He'd never considered it before, never thought it was something he would want. Family life in his experience wasn't something that brought happiness, only pain and fighting. But it couldn't be like that for everyone. At the age of thirty-four, he realised that it was something he could want after all; someone to share his life with, to make a home with where Zack could come back and visit. Only he had let the one person who he might want to do that with slip through his fingers. Well, it was too late now; there was no point thinking about it any more.

Decided, he shoved himself away from the bar and strode off to his room, tearing off his shirt as he went. He snatched up a clean one, changing quickly, his heart thumping, hands shaking as he feared that after all this he might not get there in time. He grabbed his coat from the hook on the back of the door and thrust his arms into the sleeves as he headed outside and began to hurry across to the church. The saloon clock had showed about three minutes before two when he passed it.

Finally he reached the church and flung open the door to discover he had arrived at an ironically inopportune time. The Reverend was in the middle of the line which went, 'If anyone can show just cause why these two should not lawfully be joined...' If it had been anyone else's wedding, Hank would have laughed. Now he froze just inside the door as everyone turned to look at him, most people with worry on their faces, no doubt expecting him to spoil things for Myra by making a scene.

Myra turned too, appearing slightly nervous, but with a hint of her smile on her lips. She looked beautiful in her new pink dress, her hair loose, pinned back at the side with pink lace and flowers. Hank mentally shook himself, indicating with a brief gesture of his hand that they should carry on with the service. Myra's lips curved up into a happy smile and she turned back to face Horace. Hank stepped towards the last pew where there was a space and dropped onto it, gritting his teeth and looking at the floor as the Reverend finished the ceremony.

"You may now kiss the bride," he announced.

It was done. She was lost to him forever. He waited until most of the others had left the church and then followed, tempted to simply return to the saloon, but feeling he owed it to her to stick around at least for a while.

A small stage was set up for a band to play for the dancing and tables were laid out with food and punch. Hank sat down on the edge of the stage in front of the band, painfully sober and smoked a cigar. No one came to speak to him other than Dotty and Jake, Dotty pausing in front of him briefly to ask if he was alright, to which he just nodded and she left him to it. A little while later Jake weaved his way over, already having made quite an impression on the supply of punch, mixed with the bottle of gin protruding from his pocket, no doubt.

"Hell, Hank, cheer up, will ya, it's a weddin', not a wake," he slurred. Hank looked up and glared at him and the barber raised both hands in surrender and wandered off again.

Hank stayed until just after a rather tipsy Horace, his fruit punch spiked with gin by Jake, had announced to everyone that Michaela and Sully were tying the knot next, something which was supposed to be a secret. Then he got up and made his way around the edge of the dancers, thinking he would slip away unnoticed. No one stopped him or spoke to him and he returned to the saloon alone. He sat in the bar for a while, sipping a large glass of whiskey, then when he heard the commotion outside of everyone coming back into town he went to his room. He remained there for the rest of the night, lying on the bed awake and thinking. He felt empty, as if there was nothing left inside him. He heard the girls come back and even considered going to one of them for company. The many times he had been miserable over Clarice, he had gone to Myra. She had always made him feel so much better, but there was no one who could comfort him over her. He wasn't close to any of them and couldn't see himself getting that way so he simply stayed alone, watching the sky gradually turning grey and then black outside the window as night fell, hearing the racket of the shivaree up the street, townsfolk playing a stupid joke to spoil Myra and Horace's wedding night.

Eventually he got up, lit a lamp and found some paper and a pen and ink. It was a long time since he had written to Nana. In fact he had sent her a letter just before leaving Denver, telling her he was heading south looking for business opportunities, but hadn't put pen to paper since. It had been years and he felt guilty for the lack of contact. The truth was, he hadn't wanted to tell her his business was a saloon and that he had no family life and rather than make something up, had simply not written at all. Now he felt the need to reopen the communication, to make more effort to hang onto what he still had. He would write to Zack too, he thought. The boy was learning to read at school and if he struggled, he was sure one of the other boys or a teacher would help him read his father's letter.

He wrote to Zack first. That wasn't so tough; they had spent a day together recently and he wrote about that and told the boy how proud he was of his work at school, how he looked forward to seeing him again at Christmas. It was the letter to Nana which was hard to write and he started it a number of times, writing a line or two and then scrapping it and beginning again. He just didn't know what to say. The truth would disappoint her so much. He ran a saloon, gambled and drank, kept whores, had managed to fall in love with two of them, have a child with one whom he had spent twelve years ignoring and had almost killed the other. He sighed heavily and screwed another sheet of paper into a ball, tossing it onto the floor. He so wanted to make her proud, the way he was of Zack, but he had nothing to be proud of. He put the pen down, deciding to leave it for a while and think about what he planned to say before trying to write any more. It took him until Wednesday before he made another attempt.

'_Dear Nana,'_ he began again. '_I hope you are well. Forgive me for not writing in so long.' _He stopped and chewed the end of the pen for a moment. The only thing he could do was make something up. He hated to lie to her, but he felt it was the only way he could please her. He continued the letter slowly, telling her he had found a small town on the frontier to settle in and had his own business as - what? He racked his brains for a suitable occupation which would sound feasible for a small town in the middle of nowhere and the first thing that popped into his head was the two old men in Denver who had run a tailors shop.

'_...a tailor,' _he wrote, cringing a little. What else? Wouldn't she think it strange that he was still alone at the age of thirty-four? '_I have a wife now,' _he continued. _'Her name is Myra._' He stopped and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Putting that down on paper maybe wasn't so smart. He was never going to get it out of his mind, especially if Nana wrote back and asked about her. Still, he had to say something. It was easier to write about Myra than make someone up. He added a few more lines to the letter and then signed off with, '_Fondest love, Hans_.' All he put by way of a return address was '_Colorado Springs_' although he had no idea what he was going to do if she wrote back. Horace would have a field day trying to find out who Hans Lausenstrom was in order to deliver the letter. Well, he'd just have to worry about that if it happened. Shrugging, he sealed the two letters, deciding to send the one to Zack himself the following morning and then pay some random child to send the other one for him. Oath or not, Horace would be sure to get curious about him sending a letter to one Ilse Lausenstrom.

On Thursday morning, the perfect person for the errand literally bumped into him outside the saloon. A young teenage boy from the immigrant camp on the edge of town; the same one where Matthew Cooper's little Swede lived. Now the boy backed away from Hank, a terrified expression on his face, apologising over and over. Hank had been one of the loudest voices in town complaining about the arrival of the immigrants, despite his own grandmother being Norwegian. Now he realised he couldn't have found anyone better - he wouldn't be surprised if there were people in that camp with similar names to Lausenstrom.

"Hey, it don't matter," he said now, then added, "Woah, wait a minute," when the boy turned to flee.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Wanna earn a quarter?" he offered, guessing the generous tip wouldn't be turned down.

"Yes, please!" The fearful expression slid away in favour of a grin.

Hank pulled the letter out of his pocket, along with a coin. "I want ya to send this letter for me. Take it the telegraph office and ask Mr Bing to post it." He handed over another coin for the postal fee.

"Do I say who it's from?" the boy asked.

"If he asks, tell him it's from yer pa," said Hank.

"I have no pa."

"Well, Horace don't know that. Go on. Ya do this right, I might send for ya next time I want a job doin'."

"Yes, Sir. You can trust me," the boy nodded and immediately set off in the direction of the telegraph office.

Hank grinned to himself and went back into the saloon. That was one problem solved. He left it an hour or so and then headed for the telegraph office himself. Horace and Myra were sitting at a desk behind the counter, Horace apparently teaching her how to send a telegram. Both looked up now, Horace with a slight frown.

"What do you want, Hank?" he asked sharply. Myra smiled a little apologetically at him and he gave her a quick grin. Horace's scowl deepened.

"I wanna send a letter," Hank said mildly.

"Oh!" Horace got up and came to the counter, his frown giving way to surprise. Hank put the letter to Zack down in front of him.

"Didn't know you could write," Horace said now with a touch of scorn.

"One of my new girls can," Hank said, raising one eyebrow.

"Oh!" Horace took the letter now, examined the address and placed it in a mail bag. "Bet your boy won't be expectin' a letter from _you_," he added under his breath.

"What was that?" Hank growled, clenching his fist on the counter. He had heard perfectly well, but wondered if Horace would have the guts to repeat it.

"Horace!" gasped Myra, getting to her feet now.

"What? He denied the kid for twelve years, didn't he?" Horace said over his shoulder.

Hank shot his hand out now, grabbing Horace by the neck of his shirt.

"Ya know nothin' about it!" he spat.

"Horace, stop it!" cried Myra.

"I ain't doin' nothin', he's the one...!" Horace stopped as Hank let go of him suddenly and headed for the door. "How can ya take up for him after everything...?" Horace could be heard demanding before he had walked out of earshot. Hank couldn't help a small smirk as he walked away.

"What're you grinnin' at?" asked Jake, falling into step beside him a moment later as he headed back to the saloon.

"Trouble in paradise already," Hank said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the telegraph office.

"Not surprised he's grouchy," Jake grinned.

"Whaddya mean?"

"He was talkin' to me and Loren and the Reverend yesterday."

"About what?"

"How he can't get in the mood. Shivaree ruined it for him, but he hasn't got it back since. Seems he's still wet behind the ears. What kinda man admits that to half the town?"

"Well, he ain't much of a man, is he?" grunted Hank. He turned away from Jake as they reached the saloon and shoved his way through the doors. The last thing he wanted to think about was Myra and Horace's 'relations', but he couldn't help being amused by the fact that his previous idea that Horace was lying about being responsible for Myra's supposed pregnancy the year before had just been confirmed.


	37. Chapter 37

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The next few months dragged by, with barely anything of note happening to separate one day from the next. However, there were a few occurrences and for once not all bad.

A few weeks after sending the two letters, Hank received a reply from Zack. It began with, "_Dear Pa, I am learning to write, but cannot write a letter yet, so my teacher, Mrs Bainbridge, is writing for me."_ He rambled on for several paragraphs about how he'd made sketches of the school and the nearby church and various things he could see from the school grounds. In addition he was learning to paint and enjoying being able to add colour to his work. The letter finished by saying that the school was holding a Thanksgiving dinner and he would be happy if Hank would go to it. Hank wrote back at once and accepted the invitation. At least there was now something to look forward to.

One event which initially puzzled and delighted Hank, ended with him wondering if he would ever be able to put Myra behind him. He was sitting drinking with Loren and Jake late one evening when Myra wandered into the saloon in her nightdress, marched straight over to their table and seated herself on Hank's lap. Given everything that had happened over the past few months it was the last thing he had expected and he wondered for a second if he hadn't somehow fallen asleep and conjured her up in a dream. But there were Loren and Jake next to him, jeering and teasing that Myra must have come over to get what she was missing at home. Meanwhile Myra suddenly wrapped both arms around his neck and began to kiss him with bewildering enthusiasm. The surprise and pleasure of having her suddenly throw herself at him squashed any thoughts about _why_ she might have decided to behave in such a way and Hank kissed her back.

When Horace appeared, wearing pyjamas and a stupid knitted hat, announcing that Myra was sleepwalking and shaking her until she came to, the moment was over. Myra jerked away and slapped Hank none too gently before leaving again with her husband. Hank immediately began to feel like a fool for not noticing something was amiss and covered it up by joking with Loren and Jake. However, all he could think about for a while afterwards was that it had been an awful long time since Myra kissed him like that and he found himself missing her more than ever. The whole episode had been very disconcerting and for some time he tortured himself by wondering if Myra subconsciously missed him. However she and Horace walking around holding onto each other and gazing at each other over meals at the cafe was all evidence to the contrary. Just a week later they announced that they were expecting a child and that the sleepwalking had been a strange symptom of pregnancy. Hank's spirits fell even further and he found it impossible to offer congratulations, avoiding Myra as much as he could instead for the next few weeks.

The day before Thanksgiving he travelled to Denver and spent the day with Zack, enjoying the meal with the boy at his school and making an effort to get to know a few of the other parents who had attended. One of Zack's friends, the deaf and dumb boy whose name was Charles, sat close by with his mother and Hank quickly learned that her name was Eliza and that her husband had died two years before. Eliza was an attractive woman, a similar age to himself he estimated and he enjoyed talking to her during the dinner and afterwards. For a moment he was almost tempted to ask her to meet up with him the following day for coffee, but he bit his tongue. It wasn't really what he wanted, only what he thought he ought to be doing. The woman even looked a little disappointed when he said goodbye and walked off, but he doubted any kind of liaison would be good for him at that moment. At least his girls just gave as much or as little as he wanted without expecting anything back or asking too many questions. He returned to Colorado Springs the next morning, with a new picture Zack had drawn for him and a promise to visit the boy again between Christmas and New Year.

It was the second week in December when Hank finally received a letter from Nana. He had gone into the telegraph office to mail a parcel to Zack to ensure the boy received his gift in time for Christmas Day as he didn't plan to visit until a couple of days after. Horace took the wrapped parcel and looked up the correct charge for sending it. Hank gazed about him, wondering where Myra was and noticing a number of letters lying on the far end of the counter, apparently waiting to be delivered. The one on the top of the pile was addressed to Loren and protruding from beneath that first envelope, part of another was visible. Hank could just make out the end of the name: '_senstrom_'.

"That's fifty cents," Horace said now.

"What?" Hank turned his attention back to him quickly.

"Fifty cents!" snapped Horace.

"Yeah. Sorry." Hank pulled out some coins from his pocket, wondering how he could divert Horace's attention long enough to snatch that letter before the postmaster started asking questions around town.

"Fifty cents." He tossed the coins onto the counter with enough vigour to send two of them rolling over the edge where they bounced to the ground around Horace's feet.

"For goodness' sake, Hank!" With an exaggerated sigh, Horace bent to retrieve the coins, giving Hank just enough time to pull the letter from the pile and tuck it into his coat pocket. A second later, Horace's head popped up above the counter again.

"Are you still here?" he frowned.

Hank smirked back at him and walked out, relieved that he'd had cause to go into the telegraph office on that particular day. He strode towards the saloon, glancing curiously over his shoulder at a commotion down the street; shouting, rattling and jingling.

"Wouldya look at that?" Loren said suddenly, appearing next to him. "Damned peddlers; just what I need this time of year, tryin' to put me outta business!"

The man leading a horse and wagon clearly had a good supply of stock and he was wearing an odd little black hat on the back of his head which seemed somehow familiar. Hank frowned, wondering where he'd seen someone like that. Azriel and Hyram - the two Jewish men who had rescued him from the blizzard. When they weren't wearing their fur hats, they had those little black caps too.

Thinking nothing more of it Hank returned to the saloon, keen to read Nana's letter. It was long and enthusiastic, saying that she was delighted to hear from him and so happy that he had his own business and had settled down with a wife. Hank grimaced, realising that he was going to have to carry on the lie and in doing so, would have to keep careful track of what he said to her in an effort to not trip himself up in subsequent letters. He wrote back quickly, deciding to mail the letter before Christmas along with a small gift. Loren always had things like lace hankerchiefs and fancy soaps that he was sure Nana would appreciate.

He bought lilac soap and a set of hankerchiefs with flowers stitched on the corners, then packaged them up with a letter, this one saying that Myra was now expecting. He had no idea when her baby was actually due, but since she married Horace at the end of June and Horace didn't get his act together for a couple of weeks, he guessed at the middle of April, realising this would be close to his own birthday. No one even knew when his birthday was, not even Myra. He had never thought it important enough to mention.

Hank went looking for the young boy from the immigrant camp and sent him to post the parcel, giving him a dollar for his trouble and then sat himself on the saloon porch with a cigar, watching some of the townsfolk poking at the Jew's wagon until Loren began announcing that he would cancel anyone's credit who dared to buy from his competition. Michaela took no notice of Loren and went to introduce herself to the peddler, walking off minutes later with some fancy paper Christmas decoration. Hank grinned to himself. No one told Michaela what to do, especially if it involved being unkind to anyone else.

The wagon began to roll slowly off up the street and Hank waited until it had rounded a corner, then sprang up, dropped his cigar and followed. He caught up within a minute or two.

"Hey!" he shouted.

The wagon halted and its owner turned to look at him, his expression somewhat disheartened.

"Ya sell whiskey?" asked Hank.

The face brightened immediately. "I sell everything, whiskey included. What I do not have, I can get."

"What's yer price?"

"What do you usually pay?"

Hank quoted Loren's price for a case of whiskey and watched the Jewish man's eyes twinkle, his mouth stretching into a grin.

"That is very expensive whiskey. I can supply you for half of that price," he said.

"Yeah? Maybe you and me can do business," said Hank with a smirk, sticking his hand out to shake. "Hank Lawson. I own the saloon back there."

"My name is Itzhak Frankl," the peddler replied, shaking Hank's hand vigorously. "I am very pleased to meet you."

"Where ya from?" Hank asked. "Prussia?"

"How did you know?"

"Met a few of your sort before. So, how much whiskey ya got?"

"I have two crates on my wagon. I can get more in perhaps a week."

"Well, I'll take the two ya got for now," said Hank, pulling out some money. "Follow me, we'll drop 'em off at the back of the saloon."

Hank discovered later that the whiskey was an excellent blend and he'd got twice as much for his money as he would have got from Loren. Unfortunately he now had to go and see Loren and cancel his previous order. Loren of course, was furious, especially considering his competition was Jewish. He bemoaned his loss of business in the saloon later, deciding it was high time a group of them had words with the Jews and encouraged them to leave town. Hank refused to be drawn into it, much to Loren and Jake's surprise, finally telling them how he had been rescued from the blizzard by a Jewish family.

Incredulous at Hank's apparent generosity, the old man proceeded to stir up a number of the townsfolk to the extent where they attempted to destroy the Frankls' wagon, finishing up with it collapsing on top of Itzhak and breaking several of his ribs. Hank and Sully were the first two to rush to his aid and Michaela made everyone else feel uncharitable, by their behaviour. Christmas Eve ended with half the town welcoming the Frankls with offers of help to settle in and Hank himself told them where they could find a farm for sale and added in not to many words that he would threaten the owners into selling if they refused the Jewish family.

The day after Christmas Day, Hank returned to Denver and spent two days with Zack. His gift to the boy had been an expensive set of paints and brushes and Zack had already put them to good use, creating realistic landscapes featuring rocky outcrops, trees and creeks, one picture even showing a grazing herd of horses.

Hank came back to Colorado Springs somewhat reluctantly and set to work making up large quantities of his special blend of whiskey, severely watered down and spiced up with red pepper and other ingredients, guessing it would go down rapidly on New Year's Eve as the townsfolk welcomed in 1870. He wasn't so sure it would hold much worth welcoming for himself. He was proved right when just after New Year, Dorothy Jennings read out an article from the New York Post to a group of the townsfolk, advising that a comet was on its way to collide with Earth in just a few days time. Some doctor of comets announced it would begin with storms and strange events and finish up by destroying Earth and everything on it.

It took only the rest of the day before most of the town went crazy. Hank and Loren began by cooking up plans together to make people spend their money in the saloon and the mercantile, not really believing the story, but when the ground shook with an earthquake and a geyser burst up from the ground, everyone apart from Michaela became convinced they were going to die at midnight the next day. Many people headed for the church as darkness fell, others hurrying home with their families. Even the girls in the saloon went to the church, hoping that a 'better late than never' appearance might see them into Heaven. Hank remained at the saloon alone, scoffing at everyone's fear in an attempt not to think about the fact that if it all came to an end, he would die alone while Zack did the same in Denver.

Outside a strong wind began howling around the buildings and Hank walked out into the street, wondering if it would be possible to actually see anything; a giant fireball hurtling towards Earth perhaps. The cold wind buffeted him and he wrapped his arms around himself, grimacing as he watched Michaela leave the clinic. She looked at him briefly and he almost called out to her, but she turned away to head for the church. She had gone only a few steps when Horace lurched out of the telegraph office and collapsed in the street, writhing and groaning. Hank ignored him and looked back up at the sky, but much to his annoyance Michaela began shouting at him to help. He hesitated, hating to go and help the person he disliked the most, but in the end his conscience got the better of him. He ran across the street quickly and hauled the telegraph operator back into the clinic, dumping him on the examination table, aiming to make his escape quickly and go back to his last couple of hours of loneliness.

He might have known Michaela wouldn't let him off that easy. She slammed the door closed and began setting up for an operation, insisting Hank help by passing instruments when she called for them. He watched with a kind of sick fascination as she cut a large hole in Horace's belly and began digging out his appendix, her hands covered in blood to the wrists. Outside the storm continued to rage and Hank decided to ask Michaela what she thought. Since his coma, he had developed further admiration and understanding for her and knew she wouldn't make things up. If she wasn't scared, he doubted there was any reason to be.

"What about comets, Michaela? Ya got any fear of 'em?" he asked, trying to sound curious rather than scared, which was what he was becoming.

"No. Scalpel!"

"Nothin' scares Michaela Quinn, right?" he said, passing her the tool.

"I'm frightened sometimes, Hank, just like anyone else."

"Yeah? What scares you?"

"The same thing that frightens all of us. Losing the people we love."

Hank sighed heavily, reminded again of Zack and Nana, who he was so far from at that moment and of Myra and Clarice and even Lillian, who he'd already lost. It was after eleven and according to the newspaper, that meant there was less than an hour left and as Michaela now headed for the door to be with the people she loved, it became clear he was going to spend that time with _Horace_.

"What ya gonna do? Just leave him like this?" he said.

"Right now my children need me more. Besides, he's not alone. You're here to watch him," she confirmed.

Hank watched her leave in alarm, then looked down at Horace unconscious on the table. Myra must be worried sick about him. She was alone too, in the church with everyone else, but not with the one she loved. He pulled a chair up and sat down to wait, thinking back over the terrible waste that had been his life. Everything was the way it was now because of things he had done and yet he always tried to blame it on someone else. He hated Horace for taking Myra away, but it wasn't Horace's fault; it was his own, for driving her away into someone else's arms. He wondered if there was a tomorrow, whether he would behave any differently and had to conclude that he probably wouldn't; it was already too late.

Slowly the hands on the clock worked their way around towards midnight. Horace briefly opened his eyes at one point and looked up in horror to discover Hank watching over him, but rapidly drifted off again a moment later. Hank left him and went over to the window, peering out at the heavy rain which was being driven sideways by the wind. The clock struck twelve and the rain continued to fall, the wind continued to blow and nothing else happened. Eventually the rain stopped and the glow of lamps began to appear out of the darkness as people made their way home from the church. Myra arrived at the clinic minutes later, out of breath and red-faced as she struggled to run, almost six months' pregnant.

"Horace!" she cried, hurrying to the table where he still lay sleeping.

"He's alright," Hank said quietly.

"Hank?" She turned around in surprise. "Ya stayed with him?"

"Somebody had to. I'll leave ya to it," he said gruffly and pulled the door open again.

"Thank you, Hank," said Myra.

He just nodded and stepped outside, hurrying across to the saloon. The girls were just arriving too and he followed Louisa to her room, longing for company, but later returning to his own room to sleep alone.


	38. Chapter 38

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Myra went into labour the last week in March. She had been constantly complaining for weeks that she couldn't wait for the baby to be born, but she expected it to be another ten days or so before her labour started.

Her first pain came at the cafe and Grace took her over to the clinic, but it was Colleen and Dorothy who hurried to help since Michaela had gone haring off up Pike's Peak in pursuit of a crazy old lady named Sam Lindsay and she wasn't expected back for days.

Horace hovered anxiously on the clinic porch, accompanied by Sully and a constantly changing group of others, occasionally including Hank and one or two of the girls as Myra's labour went on for the rest of the day and continued into the night. There was still no sign of the child and everyone grew increasingly worried as the next day dawned, the worried silence penetrated by Myra's shrill screams every so often.

Hank leaned against a post outside, smoking his last cigar, keeping out of Horace's way as much as possible and silently willing the baby to arrive safely.

"I'd sure feel better if Michaela was here," he muttered at one point to anyone within hearing distance. He felt a little sick, his guts twisted into a knot of anxiety as he listened to Myra's agonised cries. She was so small and frail looking - perhaps she just wasn't strong enough to get through it. He felt sure Michaela would have cut the baby out of her by now, but all she had to help her was a teenage girl, one woman who had never had her own child and another who probably hadn't given birth for thirty years.

Later he went back to the saloon for a while, but no one seemed interested in coming in for a drink so he closed up again and returned to the clinic with Dotty and Louisa, now parking himself on the bench there and drawing Dotty down beside him as Horace and Sully got up and paced around. The Reverend leaned against the wall nearby, a permanent presence now for some hours as everyone worried that Myra and the baby may not make it. Over thirty hours in labour now and still no sign it was coming to an end.

Darkness fell once again and not long after, there was silence from the clinic. Not a sound from Myra and several pairs of eyes turned towards the door as they waited for someone to come out and tell them mother and baby hadn't survived. But then a thin cry rose suddenly and the door opened to reveal Colleen, exhausted and dishevelled, but smiling.

"It's a girl," she told Horace and added that Myra was fine. Horace hurried inside at once and the group on the porch began to break up.

Hank headed back to the saloon with the girls, weak with relief that she was alright and at the same time sad that it was Horace's baby she had given birth to; just another thing that took her even further out of his reach.

Myra named the baby Samantha after Sam Lindsay, who never returned from Pike's Peak. Michaela returned alone, reporting that the old woman had died up there. She had apparently been kind to Myra before setting off on her excursion, prompting Myra to name the baby girl after her.

Hank didn't see a great deal of Myra over the next few weeks, but the times he did see her, she always seemed to be trying to quieten the baby who yelled and screamed constantly. Horace didn't seem much help, awkward and clumsy and leaving it all to Myra. A number of people interfered with differing advice on how to settle Samantha, which only appeared to upset and annoy Myra and eventually it was to Hank she turned for help, much to his amazement.

It was around two in the morning and he was still up, collecting glasses from the bar and taking them out back ready for one of the girls to wash in the morning. The four of them had already gone to bed and he had put most of the lamps out, leaving just a couple burning so he could see what he was doing.

"Hank? Hank, you up?"

It was Myra's voice, accompanied by the wails of Samantha and he hurried back into the bar, wondering what she could possibly want in the middle of the night. She was standing just inside the swing doors in a dark blue gown and frilly white cap, Samantha in her arms wrapped in a knitted blanket.

"What're ya doin' out now?" he asked her.

"I was just walkin' the baby," Myra said. "I wanted to let Horace get some sleep, but it's freezin' outside."

"Come on in." Hank ushered her towards the poker table and pulled a chair out for her, helping her lower herself into it. He dropped quickly onto the next chair as Samantha continued to cry. "Doesn't she ever stop that?"

"I just don't know what to do. Nothin' helps," Myra said tearfully. She looked exhausted, her face pale, her eyes ringed with shadows from lack of sleep.

"Give me the baby." Hank held his hands out and was surprised when Myra passed the little bundle to him without question. Her hand brushed his as she drew it away and he noticed her skin was icy. Carefully he held Samantha, rocking her and after one or two persistent yells, she subsided with a gurgle.

"She's stopped cryin'," gasped Myra in amazement.

Hank smiled, gazing down at the little face with its wide eyes, looking up at him.

"Oh, Hank, you'd have been a good pa," Myra said softly.

'But I wasn't,' he thought to himself. He had the chance with Zack and he hadn't even picked the baby up; not once. He'd thrown money at Clarice and kept away from them both. Sure, he was doing his best to make up for it now, but Zack was already in his early teens and he'd missed his childhood, missed being a real father to him. Now as he held Samantha it was so difficult not to imagine what it would be like if she was his; if he and Myra were together and he had the chance to do things properly.

"Yer a good ma, Myra," he murmured.

"I don't know why you say that. I feel so helpless." Her eyes flooded with tears and he longed to reach out and hold her too, but he knew it wasn't possible. He pulled himself together and joked instead, to cover his heartache and to make Myra laugh.

"If she gets too ornery, give her a whiskey."

It worked and she let out a little giggle, relaxing and smiling back at him as he passed the now sleeping Samantha to her.

"Hank, thank you," she said.

He just nodded, trying not to sigh too heavily, realising it was the closest they had been in over a year, but that all he could be to her was a friend.

She stayed a little longer and they gossiped quietly about some of the townsfolk, nothing too personal that would make things awkward. When she left to go home, the baby still fast asleep, Hank stayed up for the rest of the night, knowing he wouldn't sleep so foregoing the pretense of going to bed.

It was a few weeks later that several Quinns arrived in town for Michaela and Sully's wedding; her mother and a couple of a sisters. The younger one, who had wild red hair and a temper to match, immediately caught Hank's attention and for a brief period he considered making an effort to court her, at least while she was in Colorado Springs. He doubted anything more than a brief dalliance would come of it if she was anything like Michaela, but he guessed she'd look good on his arm at the wedding.

Marjorie was less than keen and looked down her nose at Hank in much the same way his own brothers had, but eventually she softened enough to talk to him a little and he discovered quickly she had plenty to be foul tempered about. Her husband had abandoned her in favour of someone younger and left her with an unpleasant little gift; the same thing that Janie and Myra had both gotten from diseased customers. Of course, she didn't mention _that_, but having seen the symptoms twice before, Hank made an educated guess that it was what was wrong with Marjorie. He told Michaela about it, which apparently helped patch up some rift they had between them and Marjorie subsequently consented to dance with him several times at the wedding celebration, but it was clear she wasn't looking for a man. He was happy enough just to spend an afternoon with someone different, who could offer stimulating conversation, even when she had a dig at him for running a 'brothel'. He found it amusing rather than annoying and for once didn't rise to the bait.

The Quinns all left town again soon enough, staying only to look after Colleen and Brian while Michaela and Sully went on their honeymoon. Then things returned to normal except for a new arrival in town who didn't waste much time in stirring things up.

Preston A Lodge III, an upstart from Boston arrived in Colorado Springs and opened up a bank, quickly enticing the townsfolk to invest their money or borrow more. Hank wasn't about to start giving his money to a bank and continued to keep it under his bed in a metal box where it had always been, but a number of people couldn't wait to take out loans to obtain things faster than they would normally have been able to. Horace was one of these people and took a loan to buy a fancy surrey, which he crashed on the first day. The whole episode created a huge fight with Myra and an enormous debt which Horace could ill afford.

Preston then added insult to injury with Horace, by asking Myra to take a job at the bank and quickly instigating another row between the couple as Myra agreed to consider the offer. Hank was the first to hear the outcome.

Preston had been in the saloon having a couple of drinks and when he left, Myra approached him on the porch. Hank had been out the back to the outhouse and as he rounded the corner he spotted them talking and stopped to eavesdrop as Myra agreed to take the job.

"That's wonderful!" exclaimed Preston. "I'm so pleased. I knew Horace would come around. Well, I'll see you first thing Monday morning at the bank."

So Horace was _letting_ her take the job? Hank frowned to himself. She wasn't going to like that. It seemed as if she hadn't liked very much lately as the pair of them argued and her face took on an expression of misery and longing more often than not.

"This is the beginning of a whole new life for you," Preston went on before he walked away. That was exactly what Horace had said when Myra left the saloon; that he would give her a whole new life.

Myra sighed heavily and turned, briefly resting her forehead against the post, her expression one of anxiety and unhappiness. Hank stepped out of the shadows and walked over to her.

"Well, whaddya know. Mrs Bing's a workin girl again," he said, dropping off the porch to the street so that he stood level with her. She looked up with a start.

"Ya don't seem too happy," added Hank.

"'Course I am." She swallowed nervously, her eyes darting about in an effort to avoid his.

"In fact, ya don't seem too happy at all lately," he continued.

"Why wouldn't I be?" she asked, looking at him now. "I got a good husband, I got a beautiful baby and now I have a great job. What else could I want?" Her face looked sad, desperate even, almost as if she were trying to convince herself that what she was saying was true, but her eyes were full of yearning.

"I don't know," Hank said, shaking his head. "Ya got that look in your eye."

"What look?" she muttered, dropping her eyes away from his again. He reached out and touched her chin, turning her face back towards him.

"The same look ya had when you were workin' for me."

For a second her eyes met his properly, looking right into him and she seemed to realise he knew what she was feeling, however hard she tried to pretend everything was alright. In that second there was a connection, one that hadn't been there in a long time, and he took a chance on it. If she hadn't looked so miserable, if she hadn't been fighting with Horace, if she'd seemed even a tiny bit happy with her life, he wouldn't have done it, but everything about her seemed to say she wanted something more. He doubted that was him, but still.

He leaned forward to kiss her. His eyes began to slide shut and he caught the scent of Myra's fancy soap, the soft smell of her skin. Time seemed to slow down for those brief few seconds as his lips moved closer to hers and then her hand came up to land on his chest, pushing against him as she turned her head aside and stepped off the porch away from him, walking away without looking back.

Hank turned away and strode into the saloon, silently cursing himself. Why had he to go and do that? She didn't want someone pouncing on her, she wanted a friend and he was so wrapped up in his own feelings he couldn't even be that. Now she'd probably avoid him like the plague, the same way she had when she first left the saloon. What had he been thinking? That she'd fall into his arms, realising she'd made a huge mistake by leaving him for Horace? It was about time he accepted that wasn't going to happen and made more of an effort to get on with his life.


	39. Chapter 39

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Hank wrote another letter to Nana, telling her about baby Samantha, but after that he did his best to throw himself into other things and stop thinking 'what if' and 'if only'. He was done fooling himself and didn't intend to waste any more time dreaming.

He visited Zack again, managing to travel to Denver, spend a few hours with the boy and return the same day now the railway ran through Colorado Springs.

He joined in a posse on a rescue mission to find a kidnapped politician's son and fought with Preston who was determined to have a boxing match with one of the other men in the party, due to a feeling of inferiority to his brothers and father. Hank could relate to that completely and volunteered, convinced he would easily knock the smaller man out with a couple of punches, but much to his annoyance Preston beat him with speed and technique. Preston spent the rest of the day gloating and trying to goad some of the others into fighting him, but all refused.

Another year ended and still Hank remained alone, spending a night with one or other of the girls every so often for company, but otherwise not making any effort to find something more permanent. He continued writing to Nana, telling her Samantha was now a year old and that Myra was working at the bank and his last letter had repercussions which he never imagined.

It was just after Hank's thirty-sixth birthday that he got the biggest shock of his life. He was waiting at the railway station with Melinda and Louisa for the Friday afternoon train from Denver; this particular one often brought businessmen looking for a place to rest for a night on their way south and they frequently accepted a room at the saloon and with it, some entertainment.

The train pulled in right on time and Hank watched for likely men disembarking, ready to go and offer his and the girls' services, but what caught his eye was an elderly lady climbing carefully down from the end of the carriage. Sully was standing right in front of her and she approached him at once.

"Young man, please to tell me where to find Hans Lausenstrom. He is town tailor."

Sully looked back at her, bewildered and Hank's mouth fell open. Nana! Instantly he was filled with panic. What was she doing in Colorado Springs? She thought he was a tailor, married to Myra, with a baby daughter. All the lies he'd told her in his letters filled his head and his first instinct was to hide. Avoid her at all costs and hope she gave up looking for him and went away again without discovering what a lying, good for nothing failure her grandson was. He fled, galloping off to the saloon as fast as his legs would carry him.

He lurked there behind the swing doors, peering out as Nana eventually appeared and went to speak to Loren at his store, apparently asking where she could find Hans. Hank's heart thumped wildly and he broke out in a sweat as he realised he couldn't keep hiding from her. She'd come all this way to see him after so many years; there was no way he could let her leave Colorado Springs without seeing him. He racked his brains for a way around the problem and decided, however foolish it might be, to try and convince Myra to help him. Conveniently forgetting about Horace, he slunk out of the saloon and hurried along to the bank. Myra worked from ten until three and it was just coming up to three now. As he approached she stepped out of the building and locked the door.

"Myra!" he panted.

"Sorry, Hank, I'm just closin'," she said, turning around.

"I gotta talk to you now!" he exclaimed.

"Well, ya'll just have to..." began Myra, her voice cut off suddenly as he reached out, grasped her by the waist and swung her off the porch to the ground in front of him. Much to his surprise, her reaction was to squeal and giggle. In any other circumstances he would have welcomed it and teased her.

"Myra!" he said urgently. "Would ya be my wife?" He cringed immediately the words were out of his mouth. He hadn't meant to say it like that and as Myra's smile slipped and her eyes popped wide open in shock, he let go of her quickly and took a step back. "I...I mean..." he stammered.

"Hank what're ya playin' at?" Myra said with a slight frown.

"Ya gotta help me," he said with a sigh. "My Nana's here."

"Isn't that good?"

"No! Yes. Look, she thinks I'm more than I am. Better than I am. I didn't want her to be ashamed of me, to know I run a saloon. She thinks I'm the town tailor and that we're married," he babbled.

"Married? Ya mean you and me? How'd she come to that conclusion, Hank?" Myra's frown deepened.

"I told her..."

"I thought ya hadn't seen her for years?"

"I haven't! I wrote..."

"Ya said ya don't know how to read and write," she reminded him.

"Myra, _please_!" he begged. "Never mind that. Ya gotta help me. Ya gotta pretend to be my wife till I can get her back on the train outta here!"

"Don't ya think it'd be better to tell her the truth?"

"And have her look at me like everyone else in my family always did? Like a failure?" His heart sank. She wasn't going to do it.

"Oh, Hank, why'd ya tell her yer married to me?" Myra sighed.

"I couldn't think of anybody else."

Her lips twitched into a slight smile now. "Ya know I'll help ya if I can, but Horace ain't gonna like this," she said. "In fact, I know he won't agree to it."

"We gotta try," Hank said, relaxing marginally. "Where is he?"

"At Grace's with Samantha. I'm goin' there now to meet him."

"Let's go!" Hank grasped her arm and began to hurry her along the street, glancing left and right as they went in the hopes they wouldn't run into Nana before they spoke to Horace. They reached the cafe without seeing her, but much to Hank's dismay, Loren and Jake were sitting at the table with Horace and he realised half the town were going to find out what a fool he was before too much longer.

Myra sat down at the table and briefly explained what Hank wanted while he hovered anxiously and fidgeted. Loren and Jake's eyebrows rose steadily towards their hairlines as they listened in, smirking and nudging each other.

"No! Absolutely not!" was Horace's immediate response.

"I'm only askin' a few hours," said Hank.

"You can't just go borrowin' a family," Horace said.

"Horace, just let him explain," Myra put in.

Hank explained further, that Nana had been told he had a wife and child, that he was respectable, while everyone grinned and scoffed and Horace's scowl steadily deepened. Hank, growing increasingly desperate, finished up by offering Horace money and begging. It was apparent that he was still going to say no, but had no chance to open his mouth before Nana suddenly appeared and threw her arms around Hank in delight.

"Hans! My little Hans!" she cried as Hank, towering more than a foot above her, lifted her off her feet in a hug.

The group at the table watched, speechless, as Nana cooed over Hank and then turned to Samantha in her pram and finally Myra. Hank only hoped Horace wasn't going to suddenly decide to speak up at that moment, but luckily he remained silent. It was Myra who put her foot in it when Nana asked to see the tailors shop. Trying to save Hank, she announced he had given it up in favour of running the telegraph office. Hank glanced at her in shock and Horace ground his teeth furiously.

Hank, desperate to get Nana away from the others before one of them gave him away, drew her away from the table, but much to his horror, she subsided into his arms in a faint. He carried her to the clinic quickly, accompanied by everyone else, Horace complaining constantly about the situation he had been put in.

Nana recovered quickly from her faint and Michaela allowed her to use one of the recovery rooms at the clinic to stay in during her visit. Hank stayed too, anxious to keep an eye on her and even more anxious that she not see him disappear into the saloon for the night.

In the morning he left early under the pretense of going to work at the telegraph office. Horace had apparently been convinced by Myra to carry on the charade and gave Hank instructions before stalking off to the saloon. Shortly after, Nana appeared to see Hank at work before telling him she planned to returned to Norway to see her old village, seemingly with no intention of coming back. She had wanted to see him one last time before leaving and now decided to spend the weekend with him and leave on Monday.

He took her to church on Sunday, the first time he had been in the place with the exception of Myra's wedding, but as they made to leave, once again Nana passed out and had to be taken back to the clinic. Michaela didn't seem to know exactly what was wrong with her although she reported an irregular heartbeat and Nana now confessed she had been having fainting episodes for some months.

Hank worried more and more, not convinced she was getting the right treatment, although within half an hour of her collapse she seemed perfectly well again. He took her, Myra and Samantha for a buggy ride, much to Horace's annoyance and it was clear he wasn't going to put up with the situation much longer, especially when that evening Nana insisted she would be fine at the clinic alone and that Hank should go on home with his wife and baby.

Hank grasped Myra's hand as they walked away from her towards the telegraph office, thinking ironically that if he wasn't so worried about Nana being ill and in addition, dreading her finding out the truth about him, he would have enjoyed imagining Myra and Samantha were his.

Now he took the little girl from Myra and sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing her on his lap while Myra prepared the cot. After a minute Myra sat down beside him and took Samantha into her own arms.

"You're so good with her, Hank," she said.

He smiled, beginning to relax a little at last and they chatted for a few minutes until a loud banging came on the bedroom window, followed by Horace climbing through, his expression irate.

"Get outta here, Hank, right now!" he ordered, picking up Hank's coat from the chair where he had dropped it and throwing it at him. "I said get out!" he repeated.

Hank exited quickly through the window, jumping down to the street, disappointed that those few moments were over. He heard Myra and Horace begin to yell at each other as he made his way across to the saloon, but much to his alarm saw Nana out walking. He accompanied her a little, but when she fainted yet again he took her back to the clinic, sending Matthew off to the homestead to fetch Michaela. He sat waiting with Nana, worrying that something serious was wrong, sure that Michaela had no idea what she was doing on this occasion. However, since Nana rapidly recovered again, there wasn't really a lot he could do other than encourage her to see another doctor back in Denver.

In the morning he went over to the telegraph office again to pretend to work, but Horace blocked his way, refusing to go along with the lies any longer and suggesting Hank try being honest with Nana if he had the guts. For once Hank had to admit that the other man was right. He couldn't keep on lying. All he was doing was tying himself in knots trying to keep one step ahead of her finding out and it seemed she was intending to stay around for another day or two yet. He only hoped somehow she would understand and forgive him.

He found her at the cafe, sitting alone with a cup of coffee. He dropped onto a seat next to her and blurted it all out in one breath before he lost his courage.

"I don't run the telegraph office, never been a tailor, ain't married to Myra neither. I own the town...saloon. I told you all them things so ya wouldn't have to be ashamed of yer grandson. Didn't think I was hurtin' nothin'; never figured on ya comin' to visit."

He looked at her hopefully, waiting for her to scold or express disappointment, but all she did was smile and take hold of his hand.

"Is good to know truth," she said softly. "I should have told truth, about fainting."

Hank relaxed in an instant, every bit of tension seeping out of him as he squeezed her hand. She wasn't ashamed! After all the lies he'd told and now finding out he was a saloon-keeper, she still didn't think less of him. And there was one other thing that might yet make her proud.

"Nana, I got a son," he said. "He lives at a special school, draws real good pictures. Havin' Zack is the only thing I ever done that amounted to somethin' important."

Nana beamed from ear to ear. "Your great uncle, my brother Gustav in Norway, he is artist!"

"Yeah? Guess it's in the family," Hank smiled.

Suddenly the last few days of sneaking around and lying seemed so pointless and he wished he'd had the courage to tell her the truth from the beginning. She wasn't disappointed and she was looking at him with love in her eyes, the same way she always had when he was a little boy.

As they sat at the table Michaela walked over, or waddled, huge now as she awaited the birth of her own baby. She had obtained advice from a colleague and suggested Nana visit a specialist in St Louis who could help her. There was a train that afternoon which would get her there in less than two days and she agreed to go.

Hank reluctantly went to see her off later, wanting to go with her, but she had already refused his offer, insisting she go alone and then continue on to New York where she would take a boat to Norway to spend her last few years in her old village.

He couldn't hold back his tears as he helped her up into the carriage and gave her the last drawing Zack had given him to take with her. He knew it was unlikely he would ever see her again, or even be able to write to her and saying goodbye to her seemed like the hardest thing he'd ever done; harder even than saying goodbye to Clarice or going to Myra's wedding.

As he gave her one last hug and drew away, he noticed both Horace and Myra watching from different areas of the platform, Myra with sorrow and sympathy and Horace with a scowl. He ignored both, brushed away the tears and pulled himself together again, swallowing another wave of pain the same as he always did and getting on with things.


	40. Chapter 40

CHAPTER FORTY

It was the middle of May when the Quinns arrived from Boston again - Michaela's mother, two of her sisters and a young doctor they had decided was going to deliver Michaela's baby. Hank was pleased to see one of the sisters was Marjorie and much to his surprise she seemed equally glad to see him, even inviting him to supper at Michaela's homestead, much to the dismay of the rest of the family. He was never one to turn down a free meal and Marjorie's company was more than a match for the disapproving glances of Michaela and her mother as he sat at the table, gulping down a second helping of turkey.

Marjorie was now divorced and making the most of her new found freedom, but her outspokenness wasn't appreciated by her family; Hank, in contrast, found it amusing and hoped to spend more time in her company during her visit. However, he didn't get a great deal of opportunity. The next time he saw her, she was on Preston's arm, heading for the hot springs where he planned to build a hotel. A groundbreaking ceremony was being held there and much to Hank's disgust, Preston managed to commandeer both Marjorie and Rebecca Quinn and escort them there, accompanied by Jake. Hank tagged along none the less. Preston would be out of the way the minute they got there, organising his 'event'.

Hank noticed Horace and Myra standing there in the crowd of people as Preston got up on his podium, Horace's face as black as thunder, clearly not happy about attending. Smirking, Hank walked past him and stood in front as Preston began to speak.

"Before we begin I'd like to thank you all for coming and giving me your support."

Hank raised one eyebrow as he heard Horace behind him, muttering something, following which Myra attempted to hush him. Horace continued to moan, louder this time, drawing attention to himself.

"Horace!" Myra hissed. "Would you please be quiet?"

"I got a right to voice my opinion," responded Horace.

"Not so loud."

"I'll talk as loud as I like!" Horace exclaimed.

Frowning, Hank turned around to look at them.

"You're embarrassin' me," Myra was saying desperately, her face mortified.

"I'm embarrassin' you? What about me? Havin' to come here in the first place so you can impress that thief!"

The whole group went silent now and all eyes turned to Horace as he continued to make a scene.

"And what about the time I let ya run around with Hank in front of the whole town pretendin' you were married? Ya don't think that embarrassed me?" he went on.

Myra clearly had no idea what to do and looked as if she hoped the ground would open up and swallow her. Hank found himself unable to stay silent a minute longer, bristling with temper as he felt an urge to protect her.

"Leave her alone, Horace," he drawled.

"Don't you talk to me!" snapped Horace.

Preston attempted to intervene and calm the situation, but found himself ignored as Hank took a step towards Horace.

"Leave her be and shut up or I'll make you shut up!" he growled.

"Hank!" protested Preston.

The little upstart was beginning to irritate him and he swung around, his fist striking Preston on the jaw, the banker clearly forgetting all of his boxing instincts in that moment. He fell hard, landing in a muddy puddle. With Hank distracted for a second, Horace flew at him and the pair began to fight, Hank getting in more punches than Horace, but sustaining a few bruises when the pair crashed to the ground, destroying Grace's buffet, Horace landing a couple of lucky thumps before Matthew Cooper, now sheriff, prised them apart.

Horace scrambled to his feet, his lip bleeding, his face furious and brushed dust off his clothes, then grasped Myra firmly by the arm and began to drag her away from the gathering. She glanced back briefly at Hank, her expression one of annoyance although it wasn't clear whether she was still mad at Horace for causing a scene, or if some of it was now aimed at Hank too for wading in and making things worse.

Hank shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced around at the others, Loren shaking his head and tutting, Jake smirking and Marjorie, much to his surprise, with a look of admiration on her face. Well, she did defy convention. He grinned at her a little sheepishly and pulled a cigar out while he waited for the ceremony to continue.

Preston, wet and muddy, did his best to carry on in a dignified fashion, but a number of people couldn't help sniggering and for the banker the day was clearly ruined.

A couple of days later, the Quinn family's preparations for Michaela's baby proved a waste of time as the little girl was born out in the woods, delivered by an injured Sully whom she had gone to help after he had got caught up between the army and the Indians once again. The pair returned to town in their wagon, Michaela cradling the baby in her arms and Sully as pleased as punch, reaching down to shake everyone's hand.

Hank congratulated them and then returned to the saloon, a little envious of their happiness. He doubted he would ever have that and it looked like Jake and Loren were in the same boat, both of them spending nearly every night drinking whiskey in the saloon with him, pretending they were happy with their lonely lives just the same as he did.

It was a week later that Hank heard some surprising news, which aroused a rush of confused feelings in him that he had hoped he was getting over. He was on his way over to Loren's to stock up on coffee and cigars and was joined on the way by Jake who needed a fresh supply of hair tonic. As they stepped onto the porch, Horace exited the store rapidly, almost running into them.

"Get outta my way, Hank!" he snarled, shoving his way past and stalking off into the street.

Hank's eyebrows rose and he glanced over his shoulder at the rapidly disappearing postmaster, for once not inclined to charge after him and start a fight. He hadn't got much sleep the previous night and was only keen to sit down with a strong coffee and a smoke.

"What's eatin' him?" he muttered now.

"Ya mean ya don't know?" said Jake.

"Know what?"

"Myra left on Saturday."

"Left? Left where?"

"She left Horace." Jake grinned at Hank's astonished expression. "Supposed to be visitin' her sister or somethin', but I wouldn't be surprised if she don't come back, the way she and Horace have been fightin'. She took Samantha and a whole loada luggage."

"She never said nothin'," Hank muttered, suddenly feeling cold all over. Why hadn't she said anything? He hadn't even seen her. She hadn't even bothered to say goodbye.

"Why's she gonna tell you what she's doin', Hank? All you've done is cause trouble for her," scoffed Jake.

"But..." Hank swallowed, aware that he was in danger of embarrassing himself. "Well, I ain't really surprised, no one in their right mind's gonna put up with Horace for long," he grunted and went on into the store.

He bought the coffee and cigars and left quickly for the saloon while Jake was still looking for his hair tonic. Abandoning the idea of making coffee, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and sat down in a corner, trying to decide whether he was relieved Myra had left Horace or disappointed that she'd left Colorado Springs. Would she ever come back? Her sister lived in St Louis - eight hundred miles away. Sure, it was less than two days on the train now, but why would she even want to come back? The only thing left in town for her was her job and who would come running back to Colorado Springs just so they could work for Preston?

His mind was in a turmoil and he found himself still sitting there drinking when the girls appeared at noon; only three of them now as Emma had left a while back to start her dress-making business in Loren's store. Hank hadn't bothered to make a fuss about her leaving, figuring it more trouble than it was worth. She had no contract so he couldn't force her to stay.

He got up now and opened up the bar for the day, carrying on drinking along with his customers throughout the afternoon, finding it impossible to get Myra out of his mind. When she was just a few yards away with Horace, he'd been able to forget about her off and on, but now she was eight hundred miles away, but alone, she was all he could think about.

Months passed and Myra didn't return. It was clearly more than a visit to her sister and Preston had been advertising for a new clerk for the bank recently. Horace looked more and more miserable as time went on and rarely spoke to anyone unless he was forced to in connection with the telegraph or the mail or the trains.

September came and a letter arrived for Hank from Zack, including the latest picture he had drawn, using charcoals. He had written the letter himself in large clumsy letters, but the fact that he had done it made Hank beam with pride. He wrote back at once and included a gift of ten dollars for Zack to buy some charcoal or paints or whatever he wanted. Then he headed quickly for the telegraph office, deciding to mail the letter right away.

Horace as usual, stood gloomily behind the counter.

"What d'ya want, Hank?" he grunted.

Hank passed him the letter and a coin. "Send this, please."

Sighing heavily, Horace reached out to take it and then turned away quickly as the telegraph began to tap, indicating the arrival of a message.

"Wait a minute," he muttered.

Hank leaned on the counter, gazing about him. A pile of undelivered parcels stood in one corner and a heap of letters on the shelf above them. Horace was getting behind in his work. An opened letter lay on the table behind the counter and Hank squinted at it curiously when he caught the first words; '_Dear Horace_'. It was from Myra.

_"We're both well. Samantha is happy here._" It sounded a bit distant, like the type of letter you wrote to an acquaintance, not your husband. He didn't bother reading any more, but idly glanced at the return address. '_12 Honeysuckle Drive, St Louis._'

Horace turned now, his telegram received.

"You still here?" he sneered.

"Ya told me to wait!" snapped Hank. "I wanna send that letter."

"Sure. Of course." Horace snatched the letter up and turned away again.

Hank strolled out, hoping Zack's letter would arrive safely. Horace appeared so distracted he wouldn't have been surprised if he put it in the wrong mailbag and it ended up in Boston or San Francisco. This apparently didn't happen because another letter came from Zack just ten days later, thanking Hank for the money and asking if he would go and visit. The school was having an open day at the end of the month with many of their students' work on display for family and friends to admire.

A week later Hank took the train to Denver, looking forward to the opportunity of spending another day with Zack. He arrived early, checked into an hotel and then went straight to the school, spending time with Zack before the event actually started and at the end, deciding to stay on for the following day before returning to Colorado Springs.

As he waited for the train home on Sunday afternoon, a station master came out from his office and wrote a new message on the board beside the platform, announcing that the train expected to arrive in fifteen minutes, Hank's train, had been cancelled as it had derailed north of the city.

Hank scowled and picked up the bag which rested at his feet, intending to go back to the hotel for another night. Then he hesitated, eyeing the train which already sat in the station at the other platform, wondering if it would take him south by a roundabout route where he could get home that night.

"Where's that one goin'?" he asked the station master.

"Philadelphia, via Kansas City and St Louis," the man replied.

Hank's pulse quickened at the mention of St Louis and he chewed his lip.

'Don't be a fool,' he told himself. 'The last person she wants to see is you; she didn't even bother saying goodbye.'

"When's it leave?" he heard himself ask.

"Twenty minutes."

"There somewhere here I can send a wire?"

"Yes, Sir, right over there." The station master pointed to a small office. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"Yes, I'll get a ticket to St Louis," he blurted out. He knew he was going to regret it. Myra would think he was a fool and probably not want anything to do with him, but he told himself he just wanted to see if she was alright. Things had been lousy between her and Horace for a while before she left and he couldn't bring himself to leave her alone to get on with her life until he checked she was alright; that she was happier. If she told him to go away, then so be it.

He followed the station master to the ticket office, bought the ticket and then went to send a telegram to Jake. He could hardly tell him he was going to St Louis - Horace would be the first person to read it.

'_Staying on in Denver a few days with Zack. Would be glad if you and Loren keep an eye on the bar. Have a few drinks on the house.'_

With the ticket bought and the message sent, it was too late to back out and he now walked to the train and climbed aboard, finding an empty compartment where he could relax for the day and a half it would take to get there.

However, as the train pulled out of the station he doubted he would be able to do much relaxing. His heart thumped as if it were about to leap out of his chest, his stomach churned as if he'd eaten something bad and his thoughts jumped between dread that Myra wouldn't want to see him and excitement that she would. It was going to a very tedious journey.


	41. Chapter 41

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The train finally arrived in St Louis just before midday on Tuesday after a long wait in Kansas City. Hank was exhausted, having only dozed for short periods and he was longing for a bath and change of clothes after more than three days in the same shirt and suit. He left the station and decided to find an hotel first, guessing he wasn't fit to be seen. He was anxious enough about seeing Myra, without meeting her all scruffy and sweaty. He had spent much of the journey convincing himself that her reception wasn't likely to be particularly warm and almost got off the train in Kansas City in order to return to Denver.

He wandered along a street now, gazing around at the tall buildings and large stores, assuming there would be a number of hotels to choose from. He spotted one moments later, a large sign with 'Oaktree Hotel' printed on it protruding from the facade a hundred yards ahead.

A carriage drawn by four horses thundered by and he turned to look as it halted outside the bank on the opposite side of the street. The bank was immense, making Preston's establishment in Colorado Springs look like a shack. The gentleman in the carriage alighted and strode towards the door, then stood back to allow a lady to exit the bank first. She swept out, pausing a moment to adjust her hat, which perfectly matched her elegant rusty-red coloured gown. Hank's eyes widened and he halted suddenly and simply stared. It was Myra.

She looked so different, her hair pinned up under her hat in some fancy style with little curls escaping around her face. The gown was ruffled and flounced and trimmed with fancy stitching and what looked like a kind of velvet edging. In the few seconds that Hank stood staring, he became only more convinced that coming to St Louis had been a mistake. Myra looked so smart, so confident; she had obviously made a new life for herself. The last thing she would want would be to reminded of the old one; of someone who had spent years treating her like a slave, who she hadn't even wanted to say goodbye to. He wasn't good enough for her any more, if he ever had been. He sighed heavily, deciding to go to the hotel, clean up and rest and then think about going back home.

Just before he began to move again, Myra looked up and caught sight of him. Her mouth fell open and then she snapped it shut quickly and simply stared for another moment before she began to cross the street towards him.

"Hank? What are you doing here?" she asked as she reached him. Even her voice sounded different - more refined, no clipped words.

"I...umm..." Completely off guard, he couldn't think of a thing to say.

Myra smiled suddenly. "Cat got your tongue?" she teased.

"Yeah." He grinned foolishly. "I wasn't expectin' to see ya, lookin' so... elegant; like a lady."

Myra's eyebrows rose.

"I didn't mean that quite the way it sounded," added Hank, becoming even more aware of his dusty, wrinkled clothes and tangled hair as he looked at her, so neat and perfect.

She smiled again. "I wasn't expecting to see you at all," she said. "What _are_ you doing here?"

"I was in Denver, seein' Zack. Train home derailed before it got in, so I took one here instead."

"You came all the way to St Louis, just on a whim?"

"A what? Look, Myra, I came to see you, alright?" he confessed. "I never even knew ya'd gone till Jake said. I wanted to see ya were alright, after what happened with Horace."

Myra's smile slipped a little. "I don't really want to talk about that," she said. "Not in the street anyway."

"Ya wanna go get a coffee or somethin'?" asked Hank, slightly encouraged. At least she hadn't told him to go to hell yet.

"I'm sorry, Hank, I have to pick up Samantha. I have a lady watch her while I'm working."

"Sure. I need to get cleaned up anyhow; been stuck on the train two days." He knew his disappointment was obvious, but he couldn't help it.

"I was going to take Samantha to the park, I suppose you could come with us, if you want to," Myra said then, much to his surprise. "If you still want to freshen up first, you could meet us there. It's off to the left at the end of the street." She indicated the corner just past the hotel he had spotted.

"Sure! I was gonna try that hotel, the Oaktree; ya know if it's any good?"

"I should think it is, it's very expensive," she said.

Hank shrugged. "Ain't got much else to spend my money on. I won't be long."

"Alright."

She turned away and he continued to the hotel, his heart thumping. He felt ridiculously excited that she apparently didn't mind spending some time with him, but at the same time he was surprisingly lacking in confidence. He was perfectly capable of wooing anyone, however fancy they were, he knew that, but this was Myra. She seemed to have changed so much and he was sure he would manage to do or say something that would annoy her. In addition, she was hardly likely to want to get involved with him again, on any level, but he had wanted it so much for so long, it seemed that he had nothing to lose.

He went and checked into the hotel, requesting two nights just in case and trying not to grimace at the price. He bathed and washed his hair quickly, put on clean underclothes and a shirt and then in the absence of a spare suit, brushed the dust off the one he had with the clothes brush in his room and did his best to shake the wrinkles out of it. By the time he went out and headed for the park an hour had passed and he began to worry that Myra would have left, but as soon as he turned off the street into the grassy area surrounded by trees, he spotted her sitting on a bench while Samantha crawled around at her feet, playing with a ball and a doll.

"Hey." He sat down beside her. "Sorry I was so long."

"It's alright, I'm not in any hurry." Myra looked up, eyeing his still damp hair. "How's the hotel?"

"Expensive," he grinned. "So how are ya? And Samantha?"

"Fine, we're both fine. We're staying with Suzannah and her husband. They have two children now too, so it's nice for Sam to have them to play with. I work in the bank, nine until noon."

"Sam's grown," Hank observed. "She's lookin' a lot like you."

"She's growing so fast, she has to have new clothes every two or three months," said Myra.

They continued to make smalltalk for a little while, Hank wanting to ask her about more personal things, but not quite knowing how to get from the subjects of Zack's drawing and her job in the bank to how she felt about everything that had happened. However, it was Myra who began to speak about it.

"How's everyone back home?" she asked suddenly. "I mean, in Colorado Springs."

"Ya still think of it as home?"

"No, it's a figure of speech. It was home for a long time."

"Well, the folks're no different than before, I guess."

"What about...?" She stopped and bit her lip.

"Horace? Ain't seen much of him. He seems mad at everythin'. Ya left pretty sudden."

"It wasn't really that sudden. You know we were fighting. He hated me working for Preston; in fact he hated me doing anything other than being a wife and mother."

"I thought that was what ya wanted when ya left m- ...the saloon," Hank said.

"I thought so too, but it turned out not to be enough. I suppose I was bored. That's why I took the job."

"What're ya gonna do now? You ever gonna come back?"

"I don't know. I have a life here now."

"Not thinkin' of goin' back to Horace, then?" he pressed, hoping to get an idea of whether there was any chance at all that she could think of him the way he wanted her to.

"Hank, I don't know what I want," she said. "It's only been a few months."

"Ya left him, didn't ya?"

"But we're still married."

"Ya gonna stay that way?"

"It's something I have to think about." She looked away from him, turning her attention to Samantha. "It really was meant to only be a visit to my sister. Then I just...stayed." She smiled a little ruefully now. "I can't really believe I'm telling you all this."

"Ya know, you were always there for me whenever I needed somebody," he said. "However bad I treated ya. I guess it's long overdue I did the same for you."

"Thank you, Hank." She bent now as Samantha abandoned her toys and scrambled to her feet, tugging at Myra's skirt. Myra picked her up and settled the little girl on her lap, stroking a hand over her blonde hair. "Are you planning on staying here long?" she asked.

"I never planned on comin' here to begin with," he smiled. "The train was just sittin' there, seemed like I was supposed to get on it. Never really thought about what I was gonna do when I got here. I guess it depends on you."

"What do you mean?" Myra's smile vanished and she eyed him suspiciously.

"I thought ya mightn't want to see me; if ya hadn't I woulda just gone straight back."

"But what do you want from me, Hank?" Myra persisted. "You didn't come eight hundred miles just to see if I'm alright."

He was a little taken aback. She had always been honest before, but hadn't usually been quite so direct. Her new life seemed to have given her great confidence and he wasn't sure how to respond to her question. Complete honesty didn't seem the wisest course; she would probably tell him to go home.

"I just wanted to see ya," he said eventually. "We've known each other a long time. I guess I missed ya."

She smiled again now, looking a little thoughtful, and he plunged ahead. "Will ya have dinner with me later?"

"Dinner? I'm not sure, Hank." She frowned slightly now. "I have Samantha."

"Can't yer sister watch her? Or you could bring her with ya."

"She's too little for a restaurant yet."

"My hotel ain't bad. There was a couple in there with kids when I checked in."

"Hank, I'm not coming to your hotel," Myra said firmly.

"It's just dinner."

"Well, I don't feel right about it." She was looking at him warily now and it seemed things weren't going to go the way he hoped.

"You pick somewhere, then," he suggested and then added what he imagined would be reassurance. "I ain't gonna do nothin' improper."

"Improper?" repeated Myra. "That's a word I never thought I'd hear you use." Much to his surprise she began to giggle, covering her mouth with a dainty gloved hand.

He grinned back at her. "Look, I just wanna spend some time with ya, is all."

"Hank, I'm not going to have dinner with you, it's too much. I'll have lunch, tomorrow after work, if you like. I'll ask Mrs Withers to watch Samantha a little longer," Myra said.

"Alright, lunch," agreed Hank at once. "Where d'ya wanna go?"

"There's a place on the street which turns off to the left by the bank I work at," Myra said. "It's called Juniper Cafe."

"Think I can run to more than a cafe," said Hank.

"Well, it's not like any cafe we've been to before," Myra said. Smirking slightly she added, "You might want to ask your hotel to press the creases out of your suit."

Hank snorted. "Ain't been out of it in three days. Four actually, if ya count the one I spent with Zack."

"I should be going now," Myra said then. "You can meet me at twelve outside the bank if you want to."

She began to get to her feet, struggling slightly with the weight of Samantha. Hank leapt up at once and took her arm to steady her, then bent and picked up Samantha's toys from the grass and handed them to her.

"Ya want any help?" he asked. "I'll carry her if ya like."

"I'm fine, Hank," she said. "Thanks anyway. I'll see you tomorrow."

He stayed where he was and watched as she walked out of the park and disappeared in the opposite direction to the road leading to the centre of the city. Then he walked back himself, first looking for the cafe she had described, wondering exactly what sort of a place it was.

Juniper Cafe turned out to be the fanciest cafe he'd ever seen, with tables covered in white cloths, fine silver cutlery, little vases of flowers and waitresses wearing smart black frocks and white aprons. Whilst looking, Hank caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window and grimaced. His suit looked much worse than he thought, almost as if he'd slept in it for a week. He left the cafe and continued down the street, looking for a tailor. There was only one thing for it - a new suit.

By the time he returned to the hotel he was well over a hundred dollars poorer and carrying a new dark grey suit, a pair of smart shiny shoes, three shirts, a couple of neckties, socks and another set of underwear. It was turning into a very expensive trip.

He changed into some of the new clothes immediately and sent the crumpled suit and the other items from the journey to the hotel laundry. It was still only four o'clock and he went down to the lounge, ordered a large whiskey from the bar and sat down to smoke a cigar and read one of the newspapers lying on a nearby table, killing a few hours until the restaurant opened for dinner.

When he returned to his room at nine, he simply stripped off his clothes and fell into bed. After several days with virtually no sleep, he doubted he could keep his eyes open for even another ten minutes. As he began to doze off he hoped, prayed almost, that somehow Myra would come around to feeling the same for him as he did for her. He didn't think it was likely, but there was no harm in hoping; the only one it could hurt was himself.


	42. Chapter 42

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Hank rose early on Wednesday morning after a long sleep and took another bath, grinning to himself as he realised two baths in two days was probably the most he'd had since he left his father's house in Denver.

He soaked for half an hour, then put on the new suit, applied the clothes brush to his hair and went down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. The first meal of the day was included in the charge for the room so he intended making the most of it, but he found he didn't have much appetite and nibbled half-heartedly at bacon and eggs, the knot in his stomach only increasing as he thought about having lunch with Myra.

He spent the morning wandering around the city, passing the time until eleven-forty-five when he headed back to the centre and paced around outside the bank, telling himself not to hope too much. It was only lunch; it probably didn't mean anything to her. She'd refused dinner after all.

The clock on the church a couple of streets away began to chime twelve and Myra appeared just as it stopped. She was wearing a grey outfit today, but not the grim, unattractive grey she'd had in Colorado Springs - this was the palest of greys, like the feathers of doves, trimmed with black stitching at the neck and the hem and with glossy black buttons down the front of the bodice. She had a hat to match, black gloves and a small black purse in her hand.

"Hello, Hank," she said.

"Afternoon." He offered her his arm, half expecting her to refuse it, but she tucked her hand through it and began to walk at his side in the direction of the cafe.

"You have a new suit," she observed.

"Yeah, the other one was a lost cause. The hotel's gonna clean it up. Seems like you got a lotta new stuff since ya came here," he said. "Ya look real good, Myra."

"Thank you."

They arrived at the cafe a minute later and Hank opened the door for her, pulled a chair out for her at the table they were shown to, ordered lunch for both of them and restrained himself from smoking. He thought to himself that it was a good thing he had learned something from his stuck up family.

They ate some fancy chicken dish followed by an icecream dessert and after an initial few minutes of awkwardness, began chatting the way they often had in the past before Myra met Horace. With the exception of her appearance and her more genteel way of talking, she hadn't really changed all that much and Hank began to relax and enjoy himself, encouraged by the fact that she was clearly enjoying his company.

By the time they left the cafe it was approaching two o'clock and Myra told him she needed to go and collect Samantha before Mrs Withers started to worry.

"I'll walk with ya," Hank said.

"Alright." She took his arm again as they began to head through town. They passed a small street stand selling the latest newspaper, one copy pinned to the front of it showing the front page.

'_Preston Lodge II Buys Clarion Hotel Chain.'_

"Ain't that Preston's pa?" Hank said, pointing at the headline. "Seems he's tryin' to take over the whole country."

Myra looked up at him.

"When did you learn to read?" she asked. "You said something else when your Nana visited too, about writing to her."

Hank grinned. "I was about nine or ten," he said. "Lillian taught me."

"So why did you tell Jake you couldn't read?"

"Aww, I felt sorry for him; Loren was makin' him feel stupid. I got enough of that when I was a kid, folks lookin' down their noses at me, tellin' me I was a failure."

"You felt sorry for him? You're all heart, aren't you?" Myra teased.

"More than ya know."

Myra glanced at him again, but didn't say anything. After a couple more minutes, she drew him to a halt and let go of his arm.

"I'll leave you here, Mrs Withers' house is just over there." She pointed down a side street.

"Ya fancy bringin' Samantha to the park again?" Hank asked hopefully.

"Not today, I promised Suzannah I'd watch her children for a while."

"What about tomorrow, then? I'll take ya both for a picnic."

"Hank..." Myra began to protest, avoiding his eyes and fiddling with her glove. "I shouldn't..."

"Ya shouldn't or ya don't wanna?" interrupted Hank. "Look, I'm gonna have to get back home soon, Jake and Loren ain't gonna keep watchin' the saloon forever. Let me see ya for the afternoon tomorrow, then I'll be outta yer hair."

"Well..." Myra hesitated and bit her lip. "Alright, then. I suppose it can't hurt. I'll meet you in the park after I pick up Samantha; it'll be about twelve-thirty, I expect."

Hank left her and headed back to the hotel, wondering how he was going to occupy himself for the rest of the day. He first advised the hotel he would be staying another night and leaving on Friday, then headed for the railway station to check the train times. There was one heading for Denver which left at one o'clock, but he realised buying a ticket would use up the last of the money he had with him.

He left the station and began walking away from the main part of the city, thinking he would find a bar and see if he couldn't get a couple of St Louis men to lose to him at poker.

He found a suitable bar, somewhat smarter than the saloon and Red's old place in Denver, but despite the fancy decorations and expensive drinks, it had a poker table and a game was in the process of being set up, three men sitting themselves down at the table and calling out to a waitress to bring them drinks.

"Afternoon, gentlemen," Hank said to the players. "Need a fourth?"

The three looked up at him and when one nodded, the other two also agreed. He sat down in the vacant chair, ordered a drink for himself and handed out his last few cigars.

Two of the men were easy to beat and were out of the game within a couple of hands, but the third proved to be a match for Hank, his face cold and unreadable and his wallet apparently bottomless. However, something eventually distracted him to the extent that he made a bold wager on a poor hand and Hank scooped up the pile of money on the table, which when he counted up later in the hotel he discovered to be over a hundred and fifty dollars. At least that had paid for his rather expensive stay in St Louis.

The following morning Hank went out hunting for an establishment where he could get a picnic for lunch. The hotel would have offered one, but it was all fancy types of things, not really suitable for a baby. Eventually he found an outdoor cafe in a poorer part of the city, not dissimilar from Grace's. Their lunch menu was soup and meatloaf or fried chicken, big slabs of thick fresh made bread and cheese and wedges of fruit pie. Hank grinned. It would almost be a taste of Colorado Springs.

The cafe owner was happy to pack up a basket of food and a bottle of cider for him, including small carefully prepared portions for a young child and even a block of fudge. She added plates, cups and napkins to the basket too. Hank promised to return the basket and crockery in the afternoon and set off to the park to meet Myra and Samantha.

There were some picnic tables and benches under the shade of the trees to one side of the grassy area and he chose one and sat down, watching out for Myra appearing. He heard the church clock strike twelve-thirty, but still there was no sign of her. Another fifteen minutes crawled by and then suddenly she rounded a corner and began to head into the park, pushing Samantha in a pram. She was wearing a blue outfit, but no hat or gloves for once. Hank got up as they came nearer and waited until Myra parked the pram and seated herself at the table before he sat down again.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Hank," she said. "Mrs Withers said Samantha's been fretting all morning. I went home to get her pram so she can nap after lunch."

"Don't matter, yer here now," Hank said. "Ya hungry?"

"Yes, I am." Myra lifted Samantha out of the pram and settled her onto her lap, taking one of the napkins and tucking it into the neck of her frock.

Hank unpacked the food and poured out cups of cider. Myra's face split into a smile as she looked at the things on the plates.

"Just like Grace's," she said. "I wonder if it tastes as good? She was the best cook."

The fried chicken and meatloaf were delicious, but both decided it still couldn't beat Grace's. Myra broke off small pieces for Samantha and then gave her a piece of fudge to nibble. When the little girl began to nod, Myra put her in the pram and then gathered up the remains of the lunch and put it back in the basket.

"Hank, thank you for this," she said. "I enjoyed it. I haven't had food like this since...well, since I left Colorado Springs, I guess."

Hank smiled. "Ya miss it at all?"

"Sometimes I do; I mean, it was my home for a long time."

"Yeah, but most of that time ya weren't happy."

"But I had friends there."

"Ya don't have friends here?"

"Not really. Only the sort one invites to sit in one's drawing room, conversing about the weather and drinking tea," Myra said with a wry smirk. "No one really talks, not even my sister."

"You ain't happy here?" Hank asked in surprise.

"Oh, I am, I mean I love the city and I love my job. I suppose I miss the people. I certainly miss Dr Mike, the doctor Suzannah has is some old fuddy duddy who still believes in bleeding people to bring fevers down, like Jake used to. And I miss just being able to gossip about everything. Like the fact that Rebecca who used to work at the bank with me left town to have a baby, only she doesn't have a husband." Myra chuckled softly. "No one speaks of things like that here. I miss Loren spilling the beans on people's business to everyone who went in the store."

Hank grinned. "Well, that ain't changed." He looked down at the table top, his heart thumping. If ever there was a time to try and find out if he had a chance with her, it was now. "Ya miss me at all?" he asked.

He raised his head again when she didn't say anything. She stared back at him, her expression unreadable, her hands folded together in front of her on the table. He took a chance; one he'd taken before outside the saloon right after she accepted the job with Preston.

He covered her folded hands with both of his and leaned forward to kiss her. Their lips touched and as he felt the warm softness of hers, for a second it seemed she was going to respond. His heart missed a beat and all the feelings for her that he had tried so hard to bury came bubbling up inside him again. Then she was jerking away from him, pulling her hands free from beneath his, her face shocked.

"Hank, what're you doing? You said..."

"I know what I said. Couldn't help myself." He straightened up, wishing he had a cigar left to give himself something to do, but he'd given the last couple away to the poker players. "I guess now ya know what I really came here for," he said bitterly.

"I thought...I guess I thought you'd changed," Myra said quietly.

"Well, I ain't. I still got feelin's for ya," he blurted out.

Her eyes widened. "I thought you meant..."

"That I was after a bit of fun? No." He shook his head. "Guess that surprises ya. Never thought I meant what I said after ya took on that girl, Jennifer's contract, did ya?"

Myra's face showed a mixture of emotions, but she didn't seem to know what to say in return. She simply stared at him, eyes still wide, lips slightly parted.

"Hell, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to dump any of that on ya. I guess seein' ya this week put ideas in my head. When I first got here I didn't think you'd even wanna see me." He got up from the table now and grabbed the picnic basket. "I better get this back to the cafe, the woman'll be thinkin' I stole it."

"I'm sorry, Hank," Myra said softly.

"Don't let it worry ya. I'm just bein' a fool, like always. I'm gonna be gone tomorrow, so I'll say goodbye." Suddenly he couldn't wait to get away from her.

"Goodbye, Hank," she said, so quietly he barely heard her.

He walked away, hoping she might call out and stop him, but knowing it wasn't going to happen. He returned the basket to the cafe first before heading for the hotel, once again feeling the crushing pain of her rejection. It was his own fault as usual. She'd said she didn't know what she wanted, that she needed to think about it, that she was still married to Horace. What in the world had made him think she would suddenly want to fall into his arms? Just like before, when she took the job with Preston, she'd wanted a friend and he'd seen more in it than there was.

He charged into his hotel room, kicked the door closed behind him and then turned and drove his fist into it, cursing viciously under his breath. Pain and fury at himself warred with each other and he paced the room, catching sight of himself in the mirror hanging above the dresser. The last thing he wanted to see was his own face. He snatched up the stool and smashed it into the mirror, shattering the oval in its gilt frame and scattering shards onto the carpet. The stool still in his hand, he hurled it across the room into the wall above the bed, two of the legs breaking off with the impact.

A loud knock came on the door a moment later.

"Mr Lawson!"

"What!" he snarled.

"Please open this door."

"Go to hell!"

"This is the manager. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave this establishment. You're causing a disturbance."

Hank jerked the door open and faced the manager, a man not all that different in appearance from Horace.

_"Disturbance_?" Hank spat. "I'll show you a disturbance!" His fist connected none too gently with the man's jaw, throwing him back against the opposite wall. The manager sidled away towards the stairs, announcing he was going to send for the sheriff.

"Don't waste yer time, I'm leavin' anyhow," growled Hank, turning back into the room. He began shoving his clothes into the carpet bag he had brought, wondering if there would be another train to Denver that afternoon to save him waiting until the following day.

He stormed out of the hotel moments later and began to stride off towards the station. He was in luck. There was a five o'clock which meant he had less than an hour to wait. He bought a ticket, then went into the small store next to the station to get some cigars. He returned to the platform from which his train was due to leave and sat down on a bench, lighting up one of the cigars, his temper rapidly subsiding and giving way to misery.

At four-thirty the train pulled in from Philadelphia and a crowd of passengers disembarked. Hank stayed where he was to finish his cigar, watching the dozen or so people who were also waiting for the train as they climbed aboard. He leaned back on the bench, one arm laid along the backrest as he took a long draw on the cigar, tipped his head back and blew smoke rings up into the air.

"Hey." Myra sat down on the bench beside him and he almost choked on the smoke, straightening up quickly and dropping the rest of the cigar on the ground.

"What're ya doin' here, Myra?" he said in surprise.

"I came to say goodbye."

"I said I was goin' tomorrow."

"Well, I thought you might go early if there was a train going to Denver."

"Sorry if I made ya...uncomfortable," he said.

"You didn't. I'm sorry I can't give you what you want. I enjoyed seeing you, Hank, but like I said, I'm still married and I don't know whether I'm going to stay that way or not. I guess I'll discuss it with Horace when he comes to see Samantha at Christmas."

"Yeah, I can understand that. I'm sorry I pressured ya." Hank looked up as the station master began calling any remaining passengers to board the train. "I guess, that's me." He grabbed his bag and got up. "Goodbye, Myra."

He quickly walked the few yards to the train, not looking back at her, but a second before he reached the steps leading up into the carriage, her voice halted him as abruptly as if she had shot him in the back.

_"Hank!"_

He froze immediately and turned to face her.

"What?"

"Maybe we could keep in touch somehow," she said hesitantly. "If you can just be my friend. I can't make you any promises, so I don't want to make things worse for you. If you'd rather forget about me..."

"That ain't gonna happen," Hank said with a sudden grin. "I'd rather be yer friend than nothin'. I guess I could send you a letter some time."

Myra smiled. "Maybe not a good idea to ask Horace to mail it. Have you something to write my address on?"

"Twelve Honeysuckle Drive, right? Don't ask," he added when her eyebrows rose. "I gotta go."

The station master was checking that the carriage doors on the train were closed and he hurried away now and bounded up the steps, quickly finding an empty compartment and dropping into the seat.

Seconds later the train began to move and he glanced out of the window, catching sight of Myra standing watching. He slumped back into the seat and closed his eyes. Once again, his mind was a turmoil. She rebuffed him which he supposed he had expected, but she wanted them to keep in touch. It was better than nothing, as long as she didn't go and fall back into Horace's arms at Christmas. He was just going to have to wait and see what happened.


	43. Chapter 43

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Hank arrived back in Colorado Springs late on Saturday afternoon and headed straight for the saloon. He found Jake behind the bar, helping himself to the whiskey.

"'Bout time," the barber said, frowning at Hank. "Where've ya been?"

"Didn't ya get the telegram?" asked Hank.

"Yeah, I got it. Ya said a few days, it's been a week."

Hank shrugged. "I'm here now." He stepped behind the bar. "So ya can start payin' for yer drinks again."

"I've had enough." Jake shot him another scowl and left the saloon.

It took Hank a while to settle back into his usual routine. All he could think of was Myra and the fact that despite rejecting his advances, she had wanted him to keep in touch. However, it took him almost two months to write her a letter. It was harder even that writing to Nana that first time. All the things he wanted to say to her, he knew he couldn't and he started writing a number of times before he finally finished a letter.

Myra had said she missed her friends and that she missed Loren's gossiping, so he wrote about what had been happening, of which there was a lot to report. A Mexican couple moved in, the husband lasted about a week before a mountain lion got him and eventually the wife started teaching the school. Preston ran against Jake for mayor and lost and then Jake's father whom he hadn't seen for years turned up with a gold nugget in his pocket, which he left for Jake when he died. Jake sold the nugget and put the money into the saloon to turn it into an hotel, part respectable and part still saloon. Hank had been dubious about going into business with Jake, but put his misgivings aside in order to get the money. They called the place The Gold Nugget after much arguing about whose name was more important.

At the same time, Preston had been building his 'chateau' by the hot springs. Preston Lodge II, his father attended the grand opening, but a tempest ruined the day and blew part of the hotel down, much to Hank and Jake's glee. To Hank's surprise, with all of this to talk about the letter ended up being several pages long and he included with it a couple of editions of the Gazette, one featuring the election and the other about the opening of the Chateau and the Gold Nugget.

Hank went into Manitou to mail the letter and then spent weeks fretting that Myra wouldn't bother to write back, that she had only asked him to keep in touch because she felt guilty for turning him down. When Horace took off to St Louis for two weeks over Christmas he worried even more, convinced that somehow Horace would persuade her they should get back together. He drowned his sorrows with whiskey and made repeated use of the girls in an effort to take his mind off it, but neither of those things worked.

Horace returned in the New Year, looking even more miserable than he had before and was barely seen outside the telegraph office. Hank guessed nothing had improved between him and Myra and started to relax again. Then eventually at the end of the month a letter arrived for him. He was walking past the telegraph office when Horace suddenly shouted out to him.

"Hank! There's a letter for ya."

Hank's heart missed a beat as he strode into the office to collect it.

"Who'd write to you?" Horace sneered.

"Zach writes to me," Hank reminded him.

"Yeah, but this ain't his writin'." Horace handed the letter over "Says 'Lissy Grant' in the corner. Mailed in St Charles, Missouri."

"Lissy? Well, she used to work for me," Hank said, biting his lip to hide a grin. No way would Lissy have written to him. It was from Myra.

"Thanks, Horace." He stuffed the letter into his pocket and returned to the Gold Nugget to read it. She thanked him for the letter and commented on some of the things he had told her, saying she was glad about the Gold Nugget. She had mailed the letter in St Charles which was a few miles outside St Louis and thought writing Lissy's name on it would prevent Horace wondering why Hank was getting letters from a place close to where she lived. She told him she had been promoted at the bank and was thinking about looking for a small place for just her and Samantha to live, rather than keep on staying with her sister. She never mentioned Horace's visit over Christmas, but Hank didn't really expect her to.

He wrote again almost immediately although there was less to say on that occasion. The Reverend had gone blind and Jake was clearly sweet on the Mexican teacher although he didn't have the guts to do anything about it. He longed to suggest going to see her again and actually wrote it down, then decided against it and rewrote the whole letter leaving that part out. He mailed the letter in Manitou as before and then eagerly awaited her reply, but after more than two months none had arrived and he began to wallow in self-pity. Perhaps she had decided against keeping in touch with him.

As he fretted and moped, so did Horace, curiously taking up to drinking in the Gold Nugget a number of times a week, despite his previous loathing of both the place and the whiskey. He had occasionally been known to drop in for a sarsaparilla, but that was all. Now he staggered home after several drinks on a few occasions and began to raise eyebrows amongst the townsfolk. Then one morning he failed to open up the telegraph office and when Michaela and Sully broke in, they found him unconscious. It was Jake who reported the news to Hank later that day.

"He tried to do himself in."

"_What_?"

"They found two empty bottles of laudanum next to him along with some divorce papers."

"Divorce papers?" Hank's eyes widened. They were getting divorced? Maybe that was why Horace had turned to drinking after Christmas. She must have decided to end it. His pulse sped up rapidly.

"Guess it was only a matter of time, she obviously wasn't plannin' on comin' back," Jake went on.

"Yeah." Hank frowned, wondering if now Myra would write to him and if not, whether he should go and see her to find out what her feelings were. How long should he reasonably leave it before turning up on her doorstep? Once again he was confused over her. If she was getting divorced, would there ever be a chance for him?

It was another two days before he heard anything more on the subject and again it was from Jake, who was leaning on the bar downing his third whiskey of the day.

"Saw Myra earlier," he said.

"_What_?" Hank's hand shook suddenly, spilling the whiskey he was pouring over the bar instead of into the glass. He put the bottle down quickly as Jake glared at him and moved his arm away from the spillage.

"Dr Mike sent for her to cheer Horace up, from what I heard. She got off the train with Samantha a little while ago. They're at the clinic."

Hank went suddenly cold. He didn't know what to think. She had come rushing to Horace's side at a moment's notice and was with him right now. She must still care for him, want to be with him. He became lost in thought and when he looked up again, Jake was gone. He stayed in the hotel for the rest of the afternoon, then headed over to Grace's as usual. The last thing he wanted was food, but he could use a strong coffee and guessed he would see Loren and Jake there. One of them might have more of an idea of what was happening at the clinic.

Loren and Jake were already seated at one of the tables with Robert E and Hank went to join them. They were all gossiping about Horace and Myra which didn't really surprise him. They fell silent when Myra and Michaela suddenly walked into the cafe. Myra was wearing a blue dress and hat and looked strained and anxious. Hank jumped up quickly.

"Myra! Over here!" He pulled out a chair for her and she came to the table, avoiding his eyes. The other three men got to their feet and waited as Myra took the offered seat, Michaela sitting down close to her. Then they all sat.

"Hello, everybody," Myra said quietly. Grace came over then to bring coffee for the new arrivals.

"Myra, I'm so sorry about Horace," she said. It almost sounded like an accusation to Hank.

"Don't go blamin' her, Grace," he said fiercely.

"Who said anythin' about blamin' her?" retorted Grace.

"'Course not, coulda been any number of things, not necessarily the divorce papers," put in Loren.

Myra's mouth dropped open. "What do you mean, the divorce papers?"

"Myra, the truth is..." Michaela began

"Truth is they found 'em next to the laudanum bottles," interrupted Jake.

"No!" Myra gasped. "He was fine when I saw him at Christmas. We both agreed to the divorce. I should have known."

So it had been Horace who instigated the divorce, not Myra. Hank wasn't sure if that made it worse or better. She seemed so shocked and upset.

The silence was broken by Michaela, explaining that she thought Horace was suffering from something called melancholia, which would make him miserable regardless of what Myra did or didn't do. It didn't seem to make a great difference to Myra and she seemed racked with guilt that Horace had been alone and miserable while she had been doing what she wanted in St Louis. She and Michaela left the cafe soon after and returned to the clinic. Hank went back to the hotel and opened a fresh bottle. He was beginning to feel a little sick and didn't even want to think of the outcome of Myra's visit. However, the next day there was no escaping it. She announced she had quit her job in St Louis and was planning to stay in Colorado Springs with Horace. Then she moved back into the rooms above the telegraph office with him and as if that wasn't enough, she agreed to the Reverend's suggestion that they get married all over again.

Hank spent another night drinking, this time continuing until he passed out in the bar long after the last customer had left and the girls had retired for the night. Months of wishful thinking - a year almost - since she had first gone to St Louis and now his hopes were dashed. As if it hadn't been bad enough seeing her get married the first time, now it was happening again.

The next day he was like a bear with a sore head, wanting to fight with anyone who said a wrong word to him. He started by throwing a cheating poker player with marked cards out of the saloon, then stood fuming on the porch for a moment, thinking about lighting up a cigar. Then he spotted Myra walking by alone and knew he had to try talking to her.

"Myra!"

She stopped and for a moment he wasn't sure how to continue. It seemed so awkward, almost as if he had never seen her in St Louis, as if they had never written to each other. He muttered something about her looking good and then blurted out what he really wanted to say.

"I can't understand you thinkin' about gettin' married to Horace again. Yer foolin' yerself if ya think you can just go back to bein' Mrs Bing."

"I never stopped being Mrs Bing," she replied coolly. She was so stiff and distant; so much changed from when he'd last seen her.

"What about them divorce papers?" he asked.

"That's all behind us," said Myra firmly. "Everything's changed. Horace needs me."

So that was it; that was the point. She was doing it for Horace, not for herself. She had seemed so happy and confident in St Louis, so different from when she'd been with Horace; different from when she'd been working for him too. But now it seemed like she was agreeing to come back to please Horace, or to cheer him up, rather than because she wanted to.

"What about you?" he pressed.

"I'm getting married tomorrow."

Hank sighed heavily. There would be no changing her mind. Just like she hadn't let Horace talk her out of sitting by his bedside rather than leave him alone in a coma, now nothing would make her leave Horace in his hour of need, no matter what she really wanted for herself.

"I guess I'll see ya at the weddin', Mrs Bing," he said quietly.

She nodded and turned away and he watched, bitter, hurt and angry as she headed back towards the telegraph office. She had let her cool expression slip just a second before she turned and her face looked just as desperate as he felt.

The wedding was set for eleven o'clock the next morning in the meadow. Hank gulped several cups of strong black coffee to wash away the effects of the last bottle of whiskey and then after he had put on one of his best suits he opened a fresh bottle. How could he go and watch her repeat her vows?

"Hank! Ya ready?" Jake strode into the bar. "You are goin'?"

"Yeah." Hank tossed the rest of the glass of whiskey down his throat, dragged a hand through his hair and followed Jake outside. Maybe this time he should speak up when the Reverend came to the part that asked whether anyone objected.

Myra was waiting with the Reverend and Samantha and a bunch of other people. Hank kept looking at her, but she avoided his eyes, her face worried and a forced smile on her lip as the minutes crawled by and Horace didn't appear. Eventually it became clear he wasn't going to and Myra, Michaela and Sully took off to the telegraph office to look for him.

"Drinks on the house back at the Gold Nugget," Jake announced to the others and began to lead the way back into town. It was obvious there wasn't going to be a wedding after all. Loren, looking out of the window, announced that Horace had been taken back to the clinic and immediately several people hurried out there to find out what was going on. Most were shocked to find out Horace had tried again to end things, only with a gun this time.

"He's crazy," Hank said with some relief. Horace had to be crazy to leave Myra standing at the altar. He wanted to talk to her, but she was in the clinic with Michaela and didn't show any signs of coming out. All he could do was return to the Nugget and hope that she was alright.

He didn't see Myra until two days later. He had gone to Grace's with Loren and Jake for lunch although he didn't have much of an appetite for anything other than whiskey or coffee. He picked half-heartedly at a piece of pie, staring at the plate with a complete lack of interest until Loren announced the arrival of Myra. He jerked his head up. Myra was alone, not even Samantha accompanied her. She sat down at the table furthest from the other diners, partly shaded by a tree. Grace went to her and she accepted coffee, but that was all.

"She looks real sad," Jake commented. "Guess she musta wanted to get back with Horace after all."

Hank's eyes narrowed. He looked over at Myra, watching as she sipped her coffee, then put the cup down and rubbed her hand over her face. After a moment she covered her face with both hands, her elbows resting on the table. He got up quickly.

"Where ya goin' now?" Loren asked.

Hank ignored him and walked to the other side of the cafe. Myra didn't look up until he sat down beside her, one leg either side of the bench. Her eyes were full of tears, her cheeks streaked with them.

"I'm sorry things didn't work out," he said softly.

She turned her face away again. "You think that's why I'm upset?"

"Isn't it?"

Myra shook her head, began to speak again but choked on the words.

"Hey." He hated seeing her hurting so much; it upset him more even than her rejecting him. Risking another rebuttal, he reached out and slid an arm around her shaking shoulders.

"Oh, Hank, I don't know what to do," she wept. She leaned against him suddenly, clutching the front of his coat with one hand, her tears soaking the collar of his shirt. He wrapped both arms around her and held her tight, surprised that out of all the friends she had in Colorado Springs, particularly Michaela, she would turn to him for comfort instead. Eventually her crying subsided and she raised her head from his shoulder, drawing back slightly. He let go of her, but laid one hand over hers where it rested on the table.

"It's guilt," she said.

"Guilt?"

"I didn't want to come back to this, but Horace needed me. I felt I owed it to him, so when he didn't turn up to the wedding, I was glad. I was glad I didn't have to go back to living like that and all the time he was thinking about killing himself again. If he'd done it, I'd never have been able to forgive myself."

"Well, he didn't do it," Hank said, his heart leaping even as he offered her comfort. "Michaela'll find some way to help him. None of this was your fault; everybody says the same. He's got somethin' wrong in his head makin' him miserable. Ain't all your doin'."

"I know that, but it doesn't make me feel any less guilty for being glad the divorce is going ahead."

"It is?"

"Horace signed the papers." She cleared her throat and scrubbed at her eyes with her free hand. "I don't know what to do," she said again.

"Ya wanna know what I think?"

She nodded, staring down at his hand which still held hers. He couldn't quite believe what he was going to say; something that was only going to make him suffer more, maybe indefinitely.

"Go back to St Louis," he said. "Tell the bank ya made a mistake and ya want yer job back. Bein' there was good for ya. Go back to it and forget about what's here. Ya gotta move on from it. Ain't no sense feelin' guilty about somethin' ya can't change. Michaela'll fix Horace. He gave ya the divorce; he ain't your responsibility no more. Do what _you_ want and stop puttin' everyone else first."

Myra looked up now, meeting his eyes, the expression in hers one of surprise and gratitude.

"You're right," she said. "I'll go back. Tomorrow morning. Thank you, Hank." She gave him a wan smile, squeezed his hand and got to her feet. She looked at him for another moment and then walked away from the cafe. Hank got up slowly and returned to Loren and Jake, both of whom were staring curiously.

"What was all that about?" Jake asked as soon as he sat down.

"Nothin'."

"Didn't look like nothin'," Loren said.

"She needed a friend," grunted Hank.

"Since when were you anybody's friend?" Loren asked with a chuckle.

"Remember when ya had a stroke, Loren? Folks didn't know how to treat ya? Who talked to ya the same as always? Who carried ya back home when ya collapsed, huh? And you!" He turned his attention to Jake. "Remember Loren teasin' ya 'cause ya couldn't read and I said I couldn't either? I lied to make ya feel better 'cause I know what it's like to be called a failure. As for Myra - I've been writin' to her because she needed a friend and I just told her to go back to St Louis and forget about everythin' here 'cause that's best for her, even though it's killin' me to do it. Ya think I don't know how to be a friend?" He stopped, aware that both Jake and Loren were staring at him in shock, their mouths hanging open.

"I'm sorry, Hank, I didn't know," Jake said meekly.

"So...you and Myra...?" said Loren.

"There is no me and Myra," muttered Hank. "Ain't what she wants."

"Didn't know you were sweet on her," said Jake.

"Didn't intend ya to know." Hank got up from the table with a sigh. When the other two said nothing more, he left the cafe and went back to the Gold Nugget, wondering what in hell had made him blurt all that out to the two biggest gossips in Colorado Springs. If he wasn't careful, he would end up the subject of his own next letter to Myra, if there ever was one.


	44. Chapter 44

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

With Myra gone, Hank did his best to convince himself she wouldn't be coming back. She needed to move on and so did he, as impossible as it seemed to be able to do that. Although he began writing to her on a number of occasions, he never sent the letters. If she wanted to keep in touch with him it would have to be down to her to let him know that.

Neither Loren nor Jake ever mentioned what Hank had said to them about Myra and surprisingly they didn't repeat it to anyone else either. Both apparently had more important things to occupy their thoughts and eventually so did Hank, at least for a while.

Jake continued longing for the Mexican widow, Teresa Morales, but never had the courage to do anything about it. Then at the end of the month Michaela's sister Marjorie returned to Colorado Springs and much to everyone's astonishment, she and Loren quickly fell into each other's arms.

Loren was head over heels in no time and proposed marriage, but Marjorie wouldn't hear of it. She was too concerned with pushing her views on women's rights onto anyone who would listen, four of these being Dotty, Melinda, Beth and one of the other three new girls Hank had taken on recently. He was infuriated when they took a day off without warning and then packed their belongings and left for Boston with Marjorie, who had promised to help them find alternative occupations and a better life.

Hank travelled to Manitou and Denver and found four new girls to replace those he had lost, his fury at the others leaving causing him to treat the new ones worse than the old.

A few weeks later, Sully once again got himself involved in helping the Indians which resulted in far more serious consequences than his previous escapades. He and a soldier fell off a cliff while fighting, causing Sully to be wanted for both treason and murder if he could ever be found alive.

Michaela, Matthew and several others searched for weeks, later helped by Sully's friend, Daniel, who arrived in town to lend a hand, but Sully wasn't found. Matthew even quit as sheriff during an altercation with the army over his duties. Then the Reverend arranged a memorial service for Sully as it was accepted that the fall from the cliff had killed him. Michaela was telling everyone he was gone, and yet a number of things didn't ring true.

Colleen and Brian were seen laughing together on the morning of the memorial service; Michaela still continued disappearing for long periods of time as if she were searching, or indeed spending time with Sully. Even the army were suspicious and Hank was sure she was hiding her husband.

Michaela had always been so honest, so straightforward, such an advocate of doing right by everyone, that Hank found himself shocked by her recent actions. She had always been one to point out his shortcomings and he had come to admire her, feeling that in some small way she had helped him to be a better person, at least in regard to Zack. Despite knowing it would hurt her, he wanted to punish her for lying, for covering up for Sully's wrong-doing, for continuing with her life as if she were the same whiter than white upholder of the law.

He stormed out into the town centre, rang the bell until he was surrounded by everyone within hearing distance and announced he was taking over as sheriff. The town no longer had any protection against the Indians, who had been setting fire to properties and shooting at people and it was time the townsfolk stood up for themselves. The army had no intention of helping so he would do it himself.

Michaela began to object of course, but with everyone except one or two supporting Hank's decision to make himself sheriff, there was nothing she could do, expecially when he announced to everyone that Sully was alive and that the first thing he intended to do was find and arrest him.

Hank rode out looking for Sully accompanied by Jake and found him and his Indian friends in just a few hours. However, they hadn't bargained on an ambush and found themselves surrounded by renegade Indians within seconds. Hank cursed himself silently as they headed back to town, relieved of both guns and horses. He had been so keen to prove Sully was a traitor and in addition, claim the thousand dollar reward for his capture, that he hadn't planned things properly, not even bothered to scout the area to see if they were likely to run into trouble. He had only himself to blame for the failure of the mission and Jake blamed him too, mostly for the loss of yet another horse to the Indians and the fact that he had to walk miles back to town with a bad-tempered Hank for company.

At the end of the summer, Hank's brief period as sheriff came to an end when several people encouraged Daniel to run against him for the position. Despite Daniel being a stranger to most of the town, he had somehow managed to ingratiate himself to the extent where he obtained more votes than Hank and proceeded to laud it over everyone with his shiny new sheriff's badge.

Hank fumed over the defeat, but it wasn't long before he had something else to be angry over. Marjorie descended on Colorado Springs again with some elderly ladies from the Women's Temperance Movement and after unsuccessfully - obviously - trying to convince Hank and Jake to stop serving alcohol and girls in the Gold Nugget, they began smashing the place up with axes. To Marjorie's credit she didn't join in with that part, but the old women did sufficient damage on their own to cost hundreds of dollars in repairs.

The women left town shortly after, but Marjorie stayed to be with Loren. Meanwhile Jake finally plucked up the courage to speak to Teresa and began courting her, leaving Hank as the only batchelor of the three, which he didn't think would ever change.

It was impossible for him not to think about Myra. Six months had passed since she left and he wondered what she was doing; whether she ever thought about him; whether she would ever contact him again. Although the longing to see her only increased, he continued to restrain himself from getting in touch with her. She clearly didn't want to be reminded of her last visit to Colorado Springs and was no doubt getting on with her life in St Louis without having to worry about him and everyone else in town.

Loren's romance with Marjorie was sadly short-lived. A diphtheria epidemic began wiping out a number of the townsfolk and Marjorie, who had helped care for some of the sick, contracted it and died. Loren was devastated - even more so, if that were possible, than when he lost Maude. Nothing seemed to help him and after some time drowning his sorrows in whiskey, he decided to leave town for a while and try to recover.

As December began, Jake and Teresa's romance progressed and Hank, watching from the sidelines, spent more of his time drinking and subsequently fighting with everyone; the townsfolk, guests of the hotel, even Jake. It was almost Christmas; everyone had plans and all he wanted was for his heartache to go away. He intended to visit Zack, but knew he wasn't going to be good company and therefore didn't much look forward to the visit. He was dreading having to put on a happy face for his son who always had an uncanny way of seeing right through him.

"Hank, there's a letter for ya." Jake came in with several pieces of mail in his hand and tossed one onto the bar where Hank stood, leaning on the counter with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other. "From Lissy. What's she doin' writin' to ya?"

The glass banged down onto the bar and Hank dropped the remains of his cigar into it, straightening up and staring down at the letter, the sound of his heart thudding almost deafening him.

"Ain't from Lissy," he said.

"It says Lissy Grant," Jake said with a frown.

Hank grinned now. "It's from Myra." He ripped open the seal and unfolded the letter, scanning the words quickly before he returned to the top and read the whole thing properly.

_"Dear Hank,"_ it began. _"I'm sorry this has taken me so long. I want to say thank you for what you did for me when I was in Colorado Springs before. I know it must have been hard for you. _

_"The bank were happy to give me my job back and have since made me an assistant manager. I intended to find a home for Samantha and I, but as yet I haven't got around to it. She and Suzannah's children are so close and my sister is happy for me to stay as long as I want to._

_"You were right; it was the best thing for me to come back here. I needed the time to think about everything and to put things behind me. I haven't heard from you, so I guess that's because you knew I had to do something for myself, to stop feeling guilty. _

_"I haven't heard from anyone in Colorado Springs - Horace sent money for Samantha, but he doesn't write me letters. So I don't know what everyone is doing; what you're doing. Perhaps you could visit me some time, if you can get away from the hotel. I guess it must keep you pretty busy. If you don't have the time to visit St Louis, maybe you could reply to this letter and let me know how everyone is."_

She signed it simply 'Myra'.

"What's she say?" asked Jake.

Too stunned and delighted to reply immediately, Hank snatched up the whiskey glass and poured the contents into his mouth, then grimaced and turned to make use of the nearest spittoon as he found an inch long piece of soggy cigar sticking to his tongue. Grimacing at the foul taste and texture, he grabbed a bottle quickly and took several gulps without bothering to use a glass again.

"Well?" prompted Jake, his face a combination of amusement and curiosity.

"Mind yer own business," Hank grunted.

"Fine." Jake shrugged and poured a drink for himself. "I'm guessin' it ain't bad though, from the look on yer face."

"I'm gonna need ya to run the place for a while," said Hank.

"Aha! Ya goin' to see her?"

"I'm goin' to see Zack, I told ya that last week." Hank shoved the letter into his pocket now and turned away to disguise the fact that he couldn't keep the grin off his face any longer.

"Yeah, pull the other one. You can get to Denver and back in a day. It don't take ya _a while_ to give yer kid his Christmas present."

"Shut up, Jake, ya got yer own affairs to worry about." Hank straightened his face with difficulty and turned around again.

"I ain't gonna say nothin'," Jake said. "Didn't before, did I? When ya goin'?"

It briefly crossed Hank's mind that there was a train leaving for Denver in less than an hour and if he hurried he could be on it, then in St Louis by Saturday. But then he would be ill-prepared, not to mention seeming desperate to both Jake and Myra. She had suggested he visit, but she hadn't indicated what would be waiting for him when he got there. She might just want news of Colorado Springs; a friend to talk to. But if that were the case, wouldn't she have just asked him to write again, rather than go to see her?

"Next week," he said shortly.

"Gonna be back in time for Christmas?"

"Christmas is nearly three weeks away, sure I'll be back." He doubted Myra would want him hanging around in St Louis that long, but all he could do was wait and see what happened.

The next Thursday, Hank took the morning train to Denver and went straight to Zack's school. He spent the rest of the day with the boy, giving him a Christmas gift of money now that he was older and liked to choose his own art supplies and books. Each time Hank saw him, he grew prouder of the way his son was turning out.

When the day came to an end, Hank checked into a nearby hotel and spent the night wide awake, going over and over every possible outcome of his visit to St Louis in his mind. Telling himself repeatedly that nothing would come of it and that Myra only wanted his friendship didn't stop him hoping. He tossed and turned, his heart thumping and his stomach in a knot, watching the hands on the clock in the room crawling around through the small hours of the next day, finally bringing dawn.

He didn't even bother entering the dining room for breakfast, deciding there was no point sitting at a table watching the other hotel guests eat. He took a bath, got dressed and ordered a cup of coffee be brought to his room. Then as early as was reasonable he set off for the railway station, bought a ticket to St Louis and then paced the platform smoking a cigar while he waited another hour for the train.

The journey seemed never-ending. A crowd of other passengers boarded at the same time as Hank and he found himself having to share a compartment with a very noisy family of five, all excited about visiting relatives in Kansas City. They chattered, laughed, sang and got up and down constantly while Hank sat staring out of the window, doing his best to ignore them.

After Kansas City, where the train waited for four hours, he had the compartment to himself and now lit up another cigar and opened out the newspaper the family had forgotten to take with them when they disembarked. He read the same article over and over and couldn't remember a single word of it when he finally tossed the paper to one side and closed his eyes.

By the time he arrived in St Louis it was Sunday morning and he realised with disappointment that there would be little point heading straight for Honeysuckle Drive. Myra would probably have gone to church and he ought to make some effort to clean up after the long journey before descending on her anyway. He went looking for an hotel, avoiding the Oaktree as he remembered punching the manager at the end of his previous stay and doubted he would be made welcome.

After a few minutes he found a much less expensive establishment than the Oaktree - a smaller building off the main street named simply St Louis Guest House. It was not much more than a boarding house, run by a lady similar to Mrs Brady in Denver and he paid for two nights, advising he may stay longer, but would let the hostess know later.

He freshened up in the room, put on a clean shirt and accepted a cup of coffee and some cookies from Mrs Claybourne, the hostess, realising he was at last hungry. Then finally at two o'clock he set off to look for Honeysuckle Drive. He knew roughly which direction it was in and began walking, his heart in his mouth, wondering what kind of a reception he was going to get.

Number twelve Honeysuckle Drive was a large house set back from the road between others of similar style. There were trees in the front and a cobbled driveway leading from the street to the door. He walked up the drive, hesitated a moment to roughly comb his hair with his fingers and then rang the bell. He expected it to be opened by a servant, but after a long moment it swung back to reveal Myra, wearing a fine striped green dress covered by a frilly white apron.

"Hank!" Her face showed astonishment, but then after a second her lips parted in a wide smile and her eyes seemed to light up.

Hank grinned back. He had a feeling this visit was going to be very different from the last.


	45. Chapter 45

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

"Hank, I'm so sorry, I have guests," Myra said, her cheeks flushing. "The ladies from church visit for a while each week. We take turns at hosting."

"Don't matter. I shoulda sent a wire from Denver rather than just turn up," he said, too pleased by the smile on her face to feel much disappointment.

"I could..." She hesitated a moment, her eyes slipping away from his. "I could meet you for lunch tomorrow after work if you like. My hours are a little longer now, I finish at one o'clock."

Hank agreed at once. "I'll meet ya outside the bank," he said.

"Are you staying at the Oaktree again?"

"No." Hank snorted and shook his head. "I upset them last time. Broke a coupla things." Including the manager's nose, he thought, but didn't add that. Myra stifled a giggle.

"I'm at the St Louis Guest House, kinda boardin' house," he told her.

"Oh, yes, I know it," Myra nodded.

"Mama?" Samantha appeared suddenly, trotting to Myra's side and grabbing a handful of her skirt.

"I won't be long, honey," Myra said, resting a hand on her blonde head.

"She got big," said Hank.

"She'll be three in just a few months. How's Zack? Are you seeing him for Christmas?"

"Already did, just came from there," Hank told her. "He's doin' great. Almost as tall as me already. Look, I'll get outta yer hair." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Yer ladies'll be impatient to discuss the weather."

Myra smothered a laugh behind her hand. "I'll see you tomorrow, one o'clock," she said and withdrew slowly, closing the door with a quiet click.

Hank headed back into the city, encouraged by the brief but positive meeting. She had seemed much more pleased to see him than he expected and he let himself begin to hope again that there might be some chance for them to be together eventually.

The rest of the day seemed incredibly long, but at last it came to an end. Despite the excitement Hank managed to sleep well at the guest house, simply from exhaustion. There were three other guests staying and in the morning the four of them gathered in the dining room while Mrs Claybourne served a large cooked breakfast.

Hank lingered over a second cup of coffee after the other three had gone. It was only eight-thirty and he still had over four hours to kill before he went to meet Myra. A few minutes later he heard the doorbell ring and Mrs Claybourne went to answer it, then came into the dining room.

"Mr Lawson?"

"Yeah?"

"There's a Mrs Bing here to see you. I showed her into the lounge."

"Oh!" Hank put his cup down none too gently and got to his feet. "Thanks." As he made his way to the other room, he couldn't help thinking something must be wrong. Why would she turn up so early? Or turn up at all after they agreed to meet for lunch.

He found her sitting on the sofa, Samantha on her lap, her face pale and worried.

"Myra, what's wrong?" He perched on the edge of the chair opposite her.

"Sorry to disturb you so early," she began.

"You ain't disturbin' me, I was wonderin' what to do with the rest of the mornin'. Y'alright?"

"I feel a bit awkward..."

"This is me, Myra, nothin's awkward, 'less ya want me to get back on the train and go home."

"No! I was going to ask you a favour. I don't know what else to do. Mrs Withers died yesterday. I only just found out from her housekeeper."

Hank frowned. The name sounded vaguely familiar.

"Mrs Withers watches Samantha while I'm working," Myra reminded him. "She had a heart attack I think."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I. And with Suzannah away..."

"She ain't here?" interrupted Hank.

"No, her husband took her and the children to Chicago for the holidays to visit his parents."

"So ya need somebody to watch Samantha?"

Myra nodded, her cheeks turning from white to pink. "Any other day I'd ask for time off work to find someone else, but the proprietor is calling in for a meeting, I have to be there."

"Lucky I'm here, then," Hank said at once.

"You don't mind?"

"'Course I don't mind. Ain't nothin' else to do, 'cept spoil a little girl all mornin'." He grinned now and Myra relaxed visibly.

"Thank you, Hank," she said.

"She'll be fine, ya got nothin' to worry about," he added.

"I know that." Myra stood up now, lowering Samantha to her feet on the floor. "You won't remember Uncle Hank, but he helped me look after you once or twice when you were really little. He's going to watch you this morning, alright?"

"Yes, Mama." Samantha stepped shyly towards Hank. "Your hair is real long," she said, gazing up at him with round eyes.

Hank grinned. "Yeah, I should get it cut. A bit. How'd ya like to spend the mornin' with me while yer ma goes to work? Maybe get some icecream or somethin'?"

"Yes, please!" Her little face split into a wide smile and she let go of Myra's hand now, grabbing Hank's instead as he reached out to her.

"See? We'll be fine," he said, getting to his feet now. "Go to work."

Myra bent to give Samantha a kiss and a minute later she was gone. Hank grabbed his coat, picked up the little girl and headed outside. The morning, which he had expected to drag, now flew by as he entertained Samantha, treating her to a dish of strawberry flavoured icecream followed by a walk in the park where they watched two boys playing with a ball and a rather mangy looking dog. Then they made a brief stop in a toy store on the way to meet Myra at the bank after Samantha spotted a pink stuffed rabbit in the window.

"Ya like pink, huh?" Hank smiled. "Just like yer ma." He bought her the rabbit, then hurried on towards the bank as the church clock struck one.

Myra had just emerged when they reached the door and she reached out to take Samantha. The little girl wrapped her arm fiercely around Hank's neck and hung on.

"Want Uncle Hank to carry me," she pouted.

"Looks like you had fun this morning," Myra said, eyeing the rabbit. "She's got you wrapped around her little finger already."

'So has her ma', Hank thought to himself. "Where're we goin' for lunch?" he asked. "That cafe again?"

"Alright." Myra tucked her hand through his arm as they walked around the corner to the Juniper Cafe. They took a table for two and Samantha sat on Hank's lap while they ate fancy little sandwiches and cakes.

"Thanks so much for watching her," Myra said for about the third time as they finished the lunch with coffee, Samantha carefully sipping milk from a small cup.

"It's no problem, I had as much fun as she did. What're ya gonna do about care for her in the future?"

"I know a few people who might take her, I'll have to go and speak to them this afternoon."

"Well, if yer stuck tomorrow, just drop her by the guest house again," Hank said at once.

Myra smiled. "Just don't let her keep asking you to buy her things."

"I don't mind. So, ya reckon there's much chance of one o' these people watchin' her one evenin' so we could have dinner?" he asked. If she said no to dinner again, he would have to accept they would only ever be friends.

"I'm not sure, I can ask. It's a shame Suzannah's away. She's not expected back until the New Year."

"So yer on yer own for Christmas?"

"I won't be really, I'm going to help with the church's Christmas dinner. The Reverend organises one for the poor."

Hank frowned slightly, wishing he could spend Christmas with Myra and Samantha himself, but that was almost two weeks away and it would certainly be too pushy to invite himself. At least she had more or less agreed to go for dinner, assuming she could find someone to watch Samantha.

He spent another hour with the two of them after lunch, during which Samantha fell asleep nestled against his shoulder as they strolled around, her thumb in her mouth and her free hand fastened tightly around the pink rabbit's neck. Then Myra took the little girl from him and went to see some of the people whom she hoped would be able to help care for her, at least in the short term.

Hank found a bar where he spent the evening drinking whiskey and joining in a few games of poker. When he returned to the guest house later on and went to bed, he lay awake for a while, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness, feeling a little happiness for the first time in years. In seemed that at last, after so long, Myra might actually consider something developing between them.

The next morning, Myra and Samantha arrived again just as he was finishing breakfast. Samantha was clutching the pink rabbit as if her life depended on it and Myra said that she had refused to part with it even when she went to bed. She told him now that she had found someone who was happy to watch the child, but she couldn't start until the following day due to a prior commitment, so Uncle Hank was needed once again.

"The lady offered to let her stay over with her own daughter tomorrow night too," added Myra.

"That mean we can have dinner?" Hank said with a grin.

"I'd like that."

"Me too." He turned his attention to Samantha. "So what does Miss Samantha wanna do this mornin'?" he asked.

"Eat icecream!" she exclaimed.

"I guess we can do that."

"I'll see you later," Myra said with a smile. "Thank you, Hank."

Hank took Samantha to the icecream parlour again and then the park until it was time to go and meet Myra. They were a few minutes early and he decided to wait outside until she came out. However, as they headed up the street towards the building something seemed to be going on. Perhaps a dozen people were hovering in the street a little way from the bank, talking in low voices. Frowning, Hank approached a middle-aged couple.

"What's goin' on?" he asked them.

"Looks like a robbery," said the man. "We only just arrived. I heard someone say there are men in there with guns."

"_What? _How many?" demanded Hank, his guts clenching.

"I don't know."

He turned to a couple of younger men and asked what they knew. They seemed to think there were two bank robbers, armed and with scarves around their faces.

"Anyone send for the sheriff?" Hank demanded loudly.

Several people turned towards him and either shrugged or shook their heads.

"What's wrong with you folks?" he muttered, looking back at the older couple. "Will ya watch the kid?" he asked, lowering Samantha to her feet. The lady grasped her hand immediately.

"What are you going to do?" she said.

"Get in there and make sure no one gets hurt."

"You can't do that," the man protested. "They have guns."

"So do I." Hank pulled the Colt out of the back of his pants where he kept it out of sight while in the city. Gasping, the couple took a small step back.

"Isn't this Myra Bing's little girl?" the woman asked then.

"Yeah. So keep her safe while I go get her ma." He looked at the rest of the group now. "You fellas sure there's only two of 'em?"

"Not sure, no, but it looks like it."

"There a way in 'round the back?"

"Yes, there's another door," someone replied.

"I think you should wait for the sheriff," another man put in.

"Maybe I would if someone bothered to tell him!" Hank retorted.

"I'll do that now," another voice spoke up and a man hurried off down the street.

Hank approached the building and cautiously sidled up to the door, peering through the glass. He immediately saw Myra and four other people huddled in a corner, a man holding them there at gunpoint, his back to the door. There was no sign of anyone else and he assumed the other thief must be in another room getting the money. He ducked back out of sight and made his way around the side of the building. Several horses stood there, two loose and a few tied to a post. It looked as if the two with their reins trailing belonged to the robbers.

He stepped past them now and walked quietly to the rear door of the bank. There were no windows in this part of the building so he was unable to check what was going on before bursting in. Instead, he pushed the door open an inch at a time, the barrel of his gun entering first.

The room beyond the door was empty, but sounds came from an adjoining room. He looked in and discovered another masked man facing the other way, training his gun on a terrified looking bank employee who was stuffing money into a sack. Without hesitation Hank brought the butt of his gun down on the back of the man's head, catching him as he began to fall and lowering him down slowly so that his body didn't make a noise as it hit the floor.

"Ssshhh," he hissed quietly at the frightened young man in front of him. "Ya got any rope?"

The response was a slight shake of the head.

"Give me yer belt," whispered Hank. "Hurry up!"

Hands shaking, the bank teller unfastened his belt and handed it over. Hank used it to secure the robber's hands behind his back, then picked up his gun, taking it as a second weapon for himself.

"How many more are there?" he asked now.

"One or two, I'm not sure. I only saw this one but I heard at least one other voice."

"Stay here." Hank made his way slowly down the corridor towards the main part of the bank, a gun in each hand, his heart thumping. He was confident he could disarm the other man easily enough, but with his gun aimed at the group of people before him, there was a chance Myra may get hurt.

"Shut yer mouth!" the gunman was shouting at one person who had dared to request he be released, given that he didn't work in the bank. "Yer a hostage! If we don't get what we come for, ya'll pay!" He pulled the hammer back on his gun, finger hovering over the trigger.

Hank hesitated, wondering whether to simply shoot the guy or charge in and tell him to put the gun down. Either way he might pull the trigger in reflex. He stepped forward.

"Drop the gun," he said. "Put it down slow and turn around."

The faces of the people in the corner turned to look at him as one. He glanced briefly at Myra, noticing her expression showing a mixture of alarm and relief. The robber lowered his arm until his gun aimed at the floor and looked over his shoulder. Then slowly he turned around. Hank shoved the gun in his left hand into his pants and walked forward to take the other man's weapon. Then suddenly Myra cried out.

"Behind you!"

He had no idea where the third man had come from. There had been no one around the back of the building or in either of the rear rooms, but he had appeared from somewhere. Hank's first instinct was to drop down on one knee in an effort to avoid being shot in the back, but as he did so the man in front of him raised his gun again. Hank fired automatically, hitting the man in the stomach. He dropped his weapon instantly, clutching himself, falling to the ground yelling in pain.

On his knees Hank turned, looking for the third man behind him, but he knew even before he saw him that it was too late. He fired before Hank even got him in sight, the bullet hitting him in the back of the right shoulder. It felt like a hard punch at first, stunning him and knocking him forwards onto his left hand. His right arm fell and the gun dropped from his hand.

"_Hank!"_ Myra screamed and dodged around the writhing man on the ground in front of her to run to him. He ignored her and looked up again, yanking the gun in his pants free with his left hand, even as he slumped to the ground on his side.

"Everyone hold still!" a new voice called now from the front door. One of the other bank employees still in the corner muttered something, one word being 'sheriff.'

Hank ignored him. The man who had shot him still had a chance of going free and was even now facing the sheriff, his gun still raised, refusing to back down. His eyes were on the officer at the door, apparently forgetting Hank on the ground. Hank lifted his left hand slowly and fired. The bullet took the thief in the chest, throwing him back against the wall, which he subsequently slid down until he lay still on the floor.

"I said hold still!" shouted the sheriff. "Put the gun down!"

Hank relaxed his fingers and the gun slid onto the floor. He realised he was lying on his back, Myra bending over him. She was wearing that smart dove grey costume, but there was blood on the sleeves and part of the bodice.

"Yer bleedin'," he whispered.

"It's not me, Hank, it's you, he shot you," she cried, lifting his head up now and lowering it onto her lap. "Someone send for the doctor!"

"I'm alright," Hank said. "Myra, Sam's outside, I gave her to a woman, said she knew ya."

"She'll be fine. What were you doing? You could have been killed. Oh my God," Myra was saying.

"I'm alright," Hank said again softly. "I'm just cold." He felt almost as cold as that time he had been caught in the blizzard and the Jewish family had helped him. He felt as if he couldn't move; his whole body felt numb and heavy, even his eyes wouldn't stay open any more.

"Hank! Oh my Lord! Somebody help!" Myra screamed. It was the last thing he heard her say.


	46. Chapter 46

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Hank was not as deeply unconscious as when he had been in the coma following Sully hitting him in the head at Myra's engagement party, but he wasn't really aware of anything going on around him. He kept hearing Myra's voice and once or twice dreamed that she was with him, touching him, her cool hands stroking over his body. He didn't want to wake up from a dream where it seemed that she wanted him, but eventually he was dragged out of it violently by the most agonising pain he'd ever felt. It was as if his skin was on fire, as if one of Robert E's blacksmith's tools had been pulled out of the furnace and rammed through his shoulder. He sucked air hard into his lungs and then clenched his teeth to stifle a groan.

"Hank?" A cool hand touched his forehead and he tried to speak, but found his mouth too dry and the pain too great. He closed it again and heard himself whimper like an animal in one of his traps, trying to get free with a broken leg. He grimaced at the sound and resolved to stay silent. A moment later his head was being lifted carefully and a spoonful of something was poured into his mouth. He swallowed it, thinking it would lessen his thirst, but it was bitter and foul-tasting and made his throat feel rough. He licked his lips and made another effort at speaking.

"Myra?"

"I'm here. You're gonna be alright. Go back to sleep." Her voice was barely above a whisper. She pulled her hand out from under his neck and slid it into his instead, her slim fingers entwining with his. He wanted to talk to her, to pull her closer and hold her, but found himself slipping back into sleep again.

This time he didn't dream, but when he came to once more the pain was slightly lessened. He opened his eyes cautiously and stared at the ceiling above him - a large white ceiling with some kind of pattern around the top of the walls surrounding it. His eyes slid to the left and came to a large window with sunlight filtering through the rose-patterned curtains. Beneath the window was a long dresser with a number of things laid on the top - photographs, a hairbrush, various trinkets. Looking down he found himself covered by a quilt similarly patterned to the curtains. He rolled his head to the right on the pillow and saw Myra, fast asleep on her side, facing him. She was lying on top of the quilt, wearing a dark red skirt and a white blouse with the neck unfastened. Her hair was loose and tangled around her shoulders.

"Myra," he whispered. She stirred slightly but didn't wake. He tried to reach out towards her, but immediately he moved his right arm, a blinding pain shot through his shoulder again and he lay still. "Myra!"

She opened her eyes immediately. "Hank, are you alright?"

"Yeah." He tried to move again and flinched although at least he managed not to whine like a sissy. Myra sat up quickly.

"I'll get you some more laudanum."

"No, I'm alright. Just water." His tongue almost felt as if it were sticking to the roof of his mouth, it was so dry.

Myra slid off the bed and poured water from a jug into a cup, then carefully lifted his head up with one arm and held the cup to his lips. He drank some, thinking he ought to be taking it from her and holding it himself, but his left arm didn't seem to want to move either. It didn't hurt, but it felt as heavy as lead. Myra lowered him back onto the pillow and put the cup down.

"What happened?" he asked now.

"There was a robbery in the bank. You..."

"No, I mean after I got shot."

"You lost a lot of blood. The bullet went right through. Some of the men outside brought you here, to my sister's house and the doctor stitched you up. He said the exit wound was the size of a child's fist." She grimaced slightly. "He didn't think you'd survive. He's been back twice to make sure there was no infection, but it seems like it's healing fine."

"How long've I been here?" Hank frowned.

"Only three days, but it seems much longer. The doctor says you'll be very weak until your blood regenerates."

"How long's that gonna take?"

"He said you should rest for at least a couple of weeks."

"He didn't think of takin' me to the hospital?"

"They have an outbreak of influenza. You're safer here."

"So you've been lookin' after me then?" Hank said, suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable.

"Of course."

"Ya shouldn't have to do that, you oughta send for a nurse or somethin'."

"Don't be silly, Hank, I'm not going to do that," Myra scolded. "Anyway, I'm sure you'll be able to get up for short periods in no time, so long as you start eating and getting your strength back."

Hank sighed and closed his eyes again. "I'm real tired," he muttered.

"Get some more sleep," Myra said softly. "I'll get you something to eat next time you wake up."

When he woke again it was dark outside, the room lit only by a small lamp on the dresser. Myra was sitting in a chair close to it, reading a book.

"Hey," he said quietly. She put the book down at once and got up.

"How are you feeling?"

"Hungry." He tried moving and although weak and shaky, managed to pull himself up a little and lean back against the wall behind the bed. The movement made his shoulder wound throb fiercely, but it wasn't as bad as it had been before. Myra grabbed up a spare pillow and slid it behind his back.

"I'll get you some food," she said. "I won't be long."

"Myra?" He called her back as she reached the door, realising for the first time that he didn't have a stitch on beneath the bed covers. "Where's my clothes?"

"They were soaked in blood, I had to clean them. I fetched your bag from the guest house too." She avoided his eyes and he guessed she was blushing, although the dim light disguised it.

"You undressed me?" he said, eyebrows rising.

"You've got nothing I haven't seen before, Hank," she replied with a slight smile. He was surprised and risked teasing her a little.

"So I've been lyin' here naked in your bed for days? Never thought this'd ever happen again. Yer lucky I'm in too much pain to move much."

"Well, we can soon rectify the naked part," she retorted, bending down suddenly. She straightened again with his bag in her hands, placed it on the edge of the bed and pulled out the spare set of underwear he had packed, dropping them onto the pillow next to him.

"Spoilsport," he smirked.

She quickly flicked back the quilt and helped him into the red union suit, her face the same colour as the fabric and her eyes studiously avoiding his, before scurrying out of the room. He hadn't been able to keep himself from grinning during the operation, despite the pain when she moved his right arm.

While she was gone, he risked a peek under the bandage around his shoulder, viewing the bullet's exit wound. It was pulled together with large black stitches, the skin surrounding it bruised purple, but there didn't seem to be much swelling and it wasn't bleeding or leaking any other fluid; it just hurt like hell. He replaced the bandage and gazed around the room while he waited for Myra to come back.

He looked at the two photographs standing on the dresser which he had noticed previously; one of Myra holding Samantha when she was a tiny baby and another of Samantha on her own sitting on a rug playing with a doll, a little older and wearing a fussy, frilly dress. The hairbrush lay to one side, accompanied by various hair pins and clips and next to them, two bottles of scent. Hank blinked and stared harder. One was a cheap little coloured bottle and the other was decorative cut glass with a fancy stopper protected by a silver cap.

'I bought you this, it came from Paris, France, it cost me ten dollars, you keep it,' he heard himself saying. He was never going to forget that bottle as long as he lived. What he didn't understand was why she had taken it after all. He'd always wondered when it couldn't be found, when Dotty was so offended that he thought she must have stolen it, but dismissed the notion that Myra would have picked it up. What had she said? 'If I live to be ninety, I'll never put this on again and you can't make me.' Why would she take it? Something that at the time he had given it to her, had meant something in a way. His heart thumped. He would just have to ask her. At that moment she pushed open the door and sidled in carrying a tray and he turned his eyes away from the dresser quickly. Later. He'd ask later.

Now she lowered the tray onto his lap. It held a plate of beef and potatoes, cut into chunks so he could eat with one hand. A fork lay beside the plate and there was also a steaming cup of coffee.

"Thanks, Myra." He wasted no time digging into the food and could almost imagine his strength returning with every bite. The last thing he wanted was to carry on being a burden to her. He'd wanted to take her out to dinner, maybe even dance, to take her and Samantha out on a buggy ride perhaps, but here he was lying in her bed an invalid, barely able to move one arm at all.

When he finished eating, Myra stayed chatting to him for a while until he found himself unable to keep his eyes open any longer, then she took the tray away and left him to sleep.

The next time he opened his eyes it was daylight again and he felt much better. He sat up and found himself a little stronger and in less pain. He was alone and guessed Myra must have slept in one of the other rooms. The clock on the wall indicated it wasn't yet six o'clock and the rest of the house was silent. Deciding to go out and relieve himself before she got up, he shoved back the quilt and experimentally slid his legs out of the bed. When he tried putting his weight on them, he realised with dismay how weak he still was. He reached out to rest his left hand on the wall and took a few shaky steps to the door, then leaned his body against the wall while he opened it. How he was going to make it all the way downstairs, outside and back again he had no idea.

He took a few steps along the landing and found himself forced to stop and rest, leaning heavily on the banister, shaking and sweating. He hated feeling so helpless, but was loath to call out to Myra for help. However, at that moment she emerged from one of the other bedrooms, wearing a long white nightgown and holding Samantha's hand.

"Where on earth are you going?" she demanded. "Wait here a minute, honey," she told Samantha and released her hand, hurrying to Hank's side.

"Outhouse," he grunted through his teeth.

"No, you're not," Myra said firmly.

"Myra, I'm not usin' the damned chamber pot!" he growled, embarrassed rather than angry. The thought made him shudder and he couldn't bring himself to think about what Myra must have been doing for him while he lay unconscious for three days.

"You won't have to," said Myra, smiling as she pushed open the door close to where he was standing. "We have indoor plumbing."

"Oh!" Surprised, Hank heaved a sigh of relief.

"I'll be downstairs, Samantha wants her breakfast." She returned to the little girl now and picked her up. "I'll bring you a meal when we're done," she called over her shoulder as she began to descend to the first floor.

By the time she returned with a tray of food - bacon, eggs, biscuits and more coffee, plus a large glass of water - Hank was back in bed, propped against the pillows, exhausted from the brief excursion out of the room.

"I could use a cigar," he said as he began to eat. "There were some in my bag."

"Well, I'm sorry, you'll have to wait until you're well enough to go outside," Myra said. "I don't want Suzannah's house smelling of smoke."

Hank grinned. "When did ya get to be so bossy?"

"Comes from being a mother, I guess," she smiled.

"Well, don't get to behavin' like yer _my_ mother," he said darkly. "Soon as I'm outta this damned bed we got a dinner appointment to keep."

"I haven't forgotten."

He finished eating and sipped the coffee. "Thanks," he said to her.

"What for?"

"This. Takin' care of me. Ain't quite what I had in mind."

"You don't have to thank me, Hank. Of course I'll take care of you if you need it, I..." She broke off for a second. "I wouldn't dream of getting some stranger to do it."

She picked up the tray and went out, leaving him wondering what she had almost said before she stopped herself. Maybe he would find out if he asked her about the perfume, but somehow it didn't feel right when he was laying there injured having her run after him like a nurse. When he was out of bed, not at such a disadvantage, then they'd talk he told himself. He'd never been much good at it before, but there was a first time for everything and maybe it would be worth it. If not, if she didn't feel the same, then at least he'd be capable of escaping the house and getting the train home.


	47. Chapter 47

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

It was four more days before Hank was able to get up properly, get dressed and venture downstairs. The first thing he did was step outside to smoke a much longed for cigar. After so long without one, it made him feel somewhat light-headed. He sat down on a carved wooden seat in the garden and thought for a while.

He was alone in the house that day. Myra had made breakfast and ensured he didn't need anything before taking Samantha to her new carer and returning to work. She had been absent since the robbery at the insistance of her boss, but now that Hank could get around on his own, albeit with his right arm in a sling, she returned to the bank.

It was a Wednesday and with only a week to go before Christmas, he decided it was time he pulled himself together and did something about talking to Myra. He had no excuse now he was out of bed, but knew he was likely to put it off rather than risk spoiling things and making himself look a fool.

He went back into the house and found a newspaper to read, then sat down in the kitchen to nibble some leftover biscuits while he read. The date on the newspaper was from the previous week and when he unfolded it, he found himself looking at a rough sketch of himself.

'_Bank Robbers' Reign of Terror Ends' _was the title of the article. Hank began to read, wondering how the reporter had managed to find out who he was. He doubted Myra would have talked to the press.

_"Colorado Springs hotel and saloon owner, Hank Lawson, 37, yesterday saved the National Bank of St Louis from being robbed, single-handedly bringing down the McDonald gang who are now wanted in three states for fourteen robberies._

_"Mr Lawson successfully subdued and tied up Jason McDonald, but was forced to shoot both Jared McDonald and Stewart David in order to save bank employees and customers who were being held at gunpoint._

_"During this selfless act of bravery, Mr Lawson was unfortunately wounded by Jared McDonald, taking a bullet in the shoulder and is now said to be lying at death's door, while doctors remain uncertain of his recovery."_

"Oh, my God," snorted Hank. "What a load of crap." Then he grinned to himself, rather liking the phrase, 'selfless act of bravery.'

He read the rest of the page and then turned to other articles in the paper to pass the time until Myra returned. She came in just before one-thirty with Samantha, carrying a basket of fried chicken that she had collected from the cafe. After they ate, she took Samantha upstairs for her afternoon nap.

"How are you feeling?" she asked Hank when she returned.

"Good, apart from still havin' a useless arm. Guess I'll have to get back home soon. Maybe we could have that dinner first; how about Friday?" he suggested.

"Alright. I'll ask the lady who has Samantha if the girls could have their sleepover this week; it never happened the day of the robbery."

"Great," Hank nodded, thinking he had better go out the next morning and at least get a new shirt. He was wearing one of the two fresh ones he had, the original ruined by the bullet hole and neither were good enough for dinner anyway.

In the end he bought a whole outfit with the exception of shoes. His suit jacket had a hole in the back and wasn't fit to be seen and he wanted to take Myra somewhere special. He bought a black suit with a vest and long coat, a white shirt and a blue necktie, then looked around the city for a suitable place to dine.

At the opposite end of the main street from the park he found an establishment which looked ideal. It was an hotel with a rather unimaginative name - The St Louis Grand Hotel - but it looked ever smarter than the Oaktree and a glance through one of the windows showed a luxurious restaurant. He went inside, thinking it wise to reserve a table with it being so close to Christmas. He was in luck; there were still some free places in the restaurant for Friday and he reserved a corner table for two for seven o'clock. In addition he ordered one of the hotel's carriages to collect them from Honeysuckle Drive at six forty-five so that they might arrive in style.

With that arranged, he called in at the toy store to pick up a gift for Samantha for Christmas. He knew she had a particular type of doll with a china face that looked like a baby, so he bought a pram for it, just the right size for a little girl who was almost three to push around. He asked the store to deliver it, rather than carry it all the way back to the house, already weighed down by new clothes from the tailors.

He knew he should get something for Myra too, but couldn't imagine what. He couldn't really buy her clothes or shoes the way he had when she'd worked for him. Besides, he wanted it to be more special than that. There was a jewellery store on the next block from the toy store and he went inside, finding only one other customer in there and two free staff waiting to be of assistance.

"Good morning, Sir, may I be of service?" offered the young lady nearest to him.

"'Mornin'. I'm wantin' a gift for a lady," he said.

"Your young lady?"

"I'm kinda hopin' she's gonna be."

"Maybe not too personal then?"

"The opposite - we've known each other a long time."

"Well, may I suggest a locket, then, Sir? We have some beautiful silver lockets in stock."

She bent and lifted a display box out of the cabinet behind her and placed it on the counter in front of Hank. It held around a dozen lockets, all silver and mostly oval shaped, but in different sizes and some engraved with leaves or heart shapes or other symbols. The lady lifted out one medium sized one and opened it to demonstrate places which held two small pictures, then picked up one of the larger items.

"These can hold up to five pictures," she said. "Or alternatively you can remove the concertina in the middle and use it to hold a personal item, such as a lock of hair."

"I think she'd prefer a smaller one," Hank said, doubting somehow that Myra would appreciate a large, heavy piece of jewellery. She was so small herself. He spent some fifteen minutes trying to decide and in the end chose one a little less than an inch long, its surface engraved with a delicate floral motif. It came with a thin silver chain, suitable to wear either outside or tucked inside clothing.

"I'll take this one," said Hank, pulling some money out of his pocket and thinking with amusement that the rate he was spending that day, he would have to consider robbing a bank himself.

The lady placed the locket in a velvet lined box and wrapped it neatly in fancy paper tied with ribbon. Hank slid it into his pocket and returned to the house, hiding it in his bag until it was time to give it to Myra. He hadn't quite decided when that would be yet, but assumed the right moment would present itself.

Myra came in that afternoon with the news that the lady who watched Samantha was happy to have her overnight on Friday. They spent the rest of the day entertaining the little girl and eating supper in the kitchen.

The next day was long and slow as Hank waited for Myra to return from the bank. She was going to be later than usual, intending to go over to her friend's house to spend an hour with Samantha before leaving her for the rest of the day and night. He spent a while lounging in the bathtub, smoking a cigar with the window open and subsequently sprayed hair tonic around the room in an effort to disguise the smell.

When Myra eventually got home, she took over the bathroom herself and remained in there for quite some time. When she finally emerged, she was wearing a dark green evening gown, the little puffy sleeves only just perching on her shoulders. Her hair was pinned up on top of her head in a loose coil with strands escaping around her neck, and tiny earrings dangled from her lobes. She carried a long black cape over one arm to keep warm on the trip to the hotel.

"Ya look beautiful," Hank said.

"Thank you." She laid the cape over the arm of the sofa in the drawing room and sat down carefully.

"I bought ya somethin' yesterday," he added. "Kind of a Christmas gift, I guess." He pulled the box out of his pocket. She wasn't wearing anything around her neck, maybe she'd even want to wear it that evening.

"Oh, Hank, you didn't have to..."

"Yeah, I did. Ya did enough for me. I got a present for Samantha too, they're deliverin' it some time tomorrow."

Myra smiled and began to open the small parcel, pulling off the ribbon and paper and popping the box open.

"Oh!" she gasped. "A locket! It's perfect." She took it out of the box and examined the engraved pattern. "Thank you, Hank, I love it. Will you fasten it for me?" She unhooked the clasp and held it out to him, then turned sideways on the seat.

He took it and carefully fastened the small fiddly clasp about her neck, then rested his hands lightly on her shoulders for a brief moment. She shivered a little and he stepped away from her, wondering if he should speak now or wait until after dinner. It wasn't going to get any easier and he thought he may choke on his food if he had to sit there all night thinking about what he would say to her later. There was still over half an hour before the carriage was due to collect them.

He sat down at the other end of the sofa, thinking that if he was next to her he wouldn't have to actually look at her. It was ridiculous to feel so nervous, but it was the last chance for him. If she didn't want him now, he didn't know what he would do. He would start by asking her about the perfume; her answer might at least give him a clue as to how she felt.

"Are you alright, Hank?" she asked suddenly.

"Yeah. That perfume bottle in yer room; that's the one I gave ya," he blurted out.

"Yes," she said after a brief pause.

"Ya did take it, then. I always wondered." He glanced sideways at her, noting her face was flushing vividly.

"Yes, I took it," she said quietly.

"Why? Ya said ya wouldn't put it on again if ya lived to be ninety."

"I don't know why." She looked down at her hands which were picking at a seam in her dress.

"Yeah, ya do."

"Well, there were a couple of reasons," she said hesitantly.

"Why don't ya tell me one of 'em?" Hank pressed.

"Partly is was defiance."

"Whaddya mean?" he frowned.

"When you threw my things in the street, Horace wouldn't let me take them," Myra began and then continued in a rush. "He said he was going to buy me all new things, give me a new life, everything I thought I wanted. But he just wanted to possess me, like you did only in a different way. He wanted me to forget about what I'd been, where I came from. I realised then that he didn't really care what I thought or what I wanted, but I went on with it anyway. I thought I only had the two choices."

"But ya loved him, didn't ya?"

"Yes, for a while. Or maybe I just thought I did. I don't know any more. I needed someone and he was there. I took the perfume because by doing it I was making my own choice."

"And the other reason?" Hank asked with a smile.

"What?" She turned to look at him now, her skin back to its normal colour, but her brow slightly furrowed.

"Ya said there were a couple."

"I wanted something you gave me." Her eyes darted away again, but her lips began to curve up into a smile. Hank's heart began to gallop, threatening to leap out of his chest altogether. Could she possibly feel the same?

"I thought you'd've wanted to forget," he said.

"It wasn't all bad memories. I hated the job, I hated the way you treated me sometimes, but I didn't hate you. You always had good inside you, you just did your best to keep hiding it. I loved you in the beginning, but you loved Clarice and then you were too hurt for anyone else."

"I wish I'd known," Hank said. "I mean, I kinda wondered sometimes, but I wish I knew for sure. I fell for ya even when Clarice was tyin' me in knots. After she was gone, there was only you for me. You were always there, however mean I was to ya. Then I figured it was too late. I guess it probably still is."

"No, it isn't," Myra whispered.

"Ya said ya loved me in the beginnin'," he reminded her and almost held his breath as he waited for her to speak again and when she did, it was everything he had wanted to hear; everything he had dreamed of hearing but told himself he never would.

"I didn't say I stopped. I guess a little part of me always loved you, I just buried it because I didn't think you'd ever be any good for me. Then I married Horace. I tried so hard to be a good wife, but in the end it made me even more miserable. The first time you came to St Louis and asked me to dinner, I almost said yes, but I was scared and I felt guilty. I was still married and I didn't want to break my vows. Then when Horace...when I came to Colorado Springs, I wished everything could have been different. I wanted to stay, but not to be with him, to be with you. But you know how I was feeling then; as if what happened was my fault."

"Tellin' ya to come back here was probably the hardest thing I ever did," Hank said with a wry smile. "'Sides turnin' up to yer weddin'. Twice."

Myra turned towards him and met his eyes at last. "It was what I needed. I think when you did that, I believed you really cared about me," she said.

"I do. Always did. Guess I had a funny way of showin' it mostly. I love ya, Myra." He reached out now to take her hands, wondering if touching her was going to make him wake up from what seemed like an incredible dream, but it didn't happen. She squeezed his hands in return and leaned closer, her face tilting up towards his for a kiss. Her lips caressed his for one wonderful but brief moment and then she drew back a little, turning her head to the side so he felt her warm breath in his ear.

"I love you," she whispered. He raised his hand to touch her, to turn her face towards his again for another kiss, but the doorbell chimed loudly announcing the arrival of the carriage and he dropped his hand away reluctantly.

"Lousy timin'," he grinned. "Shall we ignore him?"

"No, come on." Myra slid away from him and got to her feet. "I've been looking forward to this dinner a long time."


	48. Chapter 48

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The carriage ride to the hotel took only minutes and soon they were seated at the corner table Hank had reserved. Each table had a small lamp in the centre, turned low to create an intimate atmosphere and a group of musicians played soft classical music at the far side of the restaurant where there was an open area for dancing.

With the setting, the atmosphere and everything else about the evening being so vastly different from anything they'd done together before, Hank wondered whether things would seem uncomfortable, whether they would still be able to talk to each other. However, by the time he had ordered some wine and they had both chosen from the menu, things were easier than they had ever been, with nothing hanging over them like there always had been before. No Clarice or Horace in the way, no contract between them, nothing except each other. They chatted, laughed, sampled tidbits from each other's plates and after a leisurely cup of coffee even danced a little until Hank ran out of energy and his shoulder began to hurt too much, without the support of the sling.

It was after eleven o'clock by the time they climbed into one of the hotel carriages to travel home. Myra sat on Hank's left side and he slid his arm around her, hugging her tightly against him.

"It was a wonderful evening," she sighed. "I almost wish it hadn't ended."

"Ain't yet," Hank grinned. "Still gotta kiss ya." He turned slightly on the seat, lowering his head towards her. She raised her hand to touch his face and his mouth covered hers. She responded heatedly, as eager as he was and they didn't break apart until the carriage halted in front of the house minutes later.

Hank tipped the driver and they walked up to the front door hand in hand, no longer having anything to say, but content just to be in each other's company. Myra made some more coffee and they snuggled on the sofa in the drawing room for a while, until exhaustion caught up with Hank and he reluctantly decided to call it a night. He kissed Myra once more and went upstairs, leaving her putting away the coffee cups.

In Myra's room he took off shoes, coat, vest and shirt, then leaned out of the window and smoked a cigar, listening to the faint sounds of Myra climbing the stairs, opening and closing the bathroom door, then coming out again. He tossed the remains of the cigar out of the window and went to open the bedroom door.

"Hey."

She was on the landing, wearing a prim-looking white nightgown, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked barely older than the first time he'd seen her, stealing apples from the store in Denver.

"Ya know, ya should be sleepin' in yer own room," he said with a smirk.

"And you should be getting some rest," Myra replied, biting her lip in an effort to suppress a smile.

"Don't ya wanna keep me company?"

"I do, but..."

"Ya think you oughtn't in yer sister's house, or 'cause it's been a long time or somethin'?"

"I'm being silly," said Myra.

"No, you ain't. But when I said company, that's all I meant. Much as I hate to admit it, even to you, I ain't up to no foolin' about just yet. Wanna wake up with ya, though. Don't wanna let ya outta my sight till I'm forced to."

"Alright," Myra said softly.

He stepped back and let her past him into the room, then pushed the door closed. Myra slid into the bed and he quickly took his pants off, leaving his underwear on.

"Scoot over, I'm gonna have to lay on my left side," he told her. She shuffled over and lay on her back, watching as he put the lamp out and then climbed into the bed.

Hank slid his left arm under Myra's neck, resting his right carefully across her stomach, his face close to hers on the pillow. After a moment she turned over to face away from him, her body resting in his arms, fitting perfectly against his. Hank brushed his lips against her ear and then pressed his face into her neck. She smelled of that French perfume.

"God, I missed ya so much," he groaned.

"I missed you too," she murmured, covering his hand with hers where it rested just below her breasts.

"Don't ever leave me again, will ya?"

"I won't. I promise. I love you, Hank."

He still found it difficult to believe that he wasn't in the middle of a dream that he was going to wake up from at any minute. The last few hours had been perfect - better than perfect - but part of him still feared it wouldn't last, that she would suddenly decide she had made a mistake, tell him there was no future for them. It annoyed him to find himself so unsure and lacking in confidence, but he had endured so much rejection in the past it was impossible not to worry it would happen again.

"What're we gonna do when I have to go home?" he asked.

"I don't know, this has all been so quick I haven't had time to think about it," she said.

"Me neither. I'd rather not go back at all, but I'm gonna have to. Jake'll be goin' crazy about now," he said ruefully.

"Why don't you stay for Christmas?" suggested Myra. "It's only a few days away."

"Ain't ya gotta cook for the poor or somethin'?"

"No, I was just going to help serving and so on. I'd rather be cooking Christmas dinner here, for you and Samantha." She glanced over her shoulder at him in the dim light and grinned suddenly. "Besides, I don't think you should be spending two days on a train just yet. The doctor would probably advise against it. You still have to get your stitches taken out too."

"Mmm, forgot about that." Hank kissed her cheek softly. "I guess yer right. If I ain't up to foolin' around, long journey's gonna be far too much for me. Jake's probably gonna put another bullet in me when I get back, ya realise."

"I thought you said he was in love with the school teacher? Don't you think he'll have other things to keep him occupied?"

"Yeah, I guess he does. I got other things to keep me occupied too, bein' in love with the assistant bank manager, an' all."

Hank hugged her tighter and closed his eyes, wondering exactly what their future would bring. Would Myra ever come back to Colorado Springs? Would he leave the Gold Nugget behind and move to St Louis? So long as they were together, he guessed it didn't matter. He fell asleep still thinking about it and hours later, woke to see sunlight shining through the curtains, Myra still lying in his arms. She had rolled over in the night and was facing him. She opened her eyes after a moment and looked into his.

"Mornin'," he said with a grin.

She smiled back and gave him a light kiss. "Better get up, I have to go and collect Samantha." She drew away from him and slid out of the bed. "I'll make some breakfast. Do you want it up here?"

"No, I'll come down." Hank rolled over onto his back and stretched his right arm carefully. It was feeling much better and the wound was healing well with no further need for the bandages. He decided to call on the doctor later to see if the stitches could come out.

After breakfast, Myra went to fetch Samantha and Hank went to the hospital. The doctor confirmed there was no reason for him to visit again and removed the stitches within a few minutes. He returned to the house and spent the rest of the weekend with Myra and Samantha, going to the park together, playing games in the house, taking turns at reading to the little girl.

For the first time in his life, Hank felt as if he were part of a real family and he began to realise even more that it was something he had longed for, but never really thought seriously about. Now he saw what the rest of his life could be like. If he married Myra it could be like this every day. Maybe they'd even have a child together; they weren't yet too old, Myra was only thirty-five. He found himself grinning suddenly. Not so very long ago the thought of marriage probably would have scared the hell out of him and now all it did was tie him in knots as he wondered if he should ask her, _when_ he should ask her. Was it too soon? He'd known her almost eighteen years, but despite that it was only two days since they really talked and opened up to each other.

Eventually he decided it would be better to wait a little, at least until he had the opportunity to get a ring first. It needn't be a long time. He would go back to Colorado Springs after Christmas, maybe stay a week or two and then come back. Loren and Jake would never let him hear the end of it, he thought with a smirk. They'd certainly have plenty to say if they could see him now, behaving so differently from the way they knew him to be.

"What are you grinning at?" Myra asked suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.

"Uh, nothin' much. Just thinkin' I never thought we'd end up here. I mean together."

"I didn't either," said Myra. "I'm going to hate it when you go home."

"That's somethin' else I was thinkin'. How short a time I can get away with bein' there before I can come back."

"Maybe we should forget about that until _after _Christmas," reasoned Myra.

"Yeah, good idea."

The weekend seemed to be over all too quickly, but Myra only had to work Monday. Tuesday was Christmas Eve and the bank closed for both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Hank reluctantly decided to leave for Colorado Springs on Thursday when Myra went back to the bank after the short break, but in the meantime he intended to make the most of Christmas.

On Monday he slipped out in the morning and purchased two extra gifts for Myra, a pink silk nightgown and another bottle of the French perfume, which he noticed was down to its last few drops, then after she finished work they spent the afternoon shopping, buying presents for Samantha and food for Christmas dinner. The doll's pram Hank had bought was already wrapped and hidden in Myra's room. Later they went out again and bought a Christmas tree from the general store which had a forest of them standing outside the front windows. Hank put it up in the drawing room and they decorated it together with bright baubles and stars and ribbons. Then the pile of gifts was stacked beneath it, including a couple of parcels with Hank's name on which had mysteriously appeared.

Myra spent a good portion of Christmas Eve preparing food - measuring, mixing, frying and baking while Hank entertained Samantha. It was too cold for her to play outside so he read to her and played with some small carved animals she had in her collection of toys. After she went to bed, Hank and Myra snuggled on the sofa in front of a roaring fire, each looking forward to Christmas Day with excitement, more than they ever had before. They went to bed early, Myra changing into her nightgown in the room Samantha slept in and then returning to her own room to join Hank as she had each night since Friday.

Hank woke in the early hours of the morning, disturbed by a sound along the landing. The bedroom door was ajar and he drew away from Myra who was still sleeping as Samantha let out a cry.

"Mama!"

He considered waking Myra, but she looked so peaceful that he left her there and got up to go to the little girl himself. She was sitting up in her small low bed, clutching her rabbit, sucking her thumb and snuffling. Hank crouched down beside her.

"Hey, Samantha, what's the matter?" he asked. "Can't ya sleep?"

Her thumb popped out of her mouth and she looked at him from wide eyes.

"Uncle Hank? Where's Mama?"

"She's sleepin'. Want me to go get her?"

Samantha shook her head solemnly. "Will you tell me a story?"

"Sure," Hank said, wondering what on earth he was going to tell her. No one had ever told him stories, except for Nana when he was really young and then she mostly told them in Norwegian. Samantha lay down again and he tucked the quilt around her, then sat down on the floor.

"Once there was a boy called Hans," he began. "He had twin brothers a few years older." He made up a comical story about himself getting in trouble for some minor misdemeanour, being sent to his room and his brothers sneaking food to him wrapped in a napkin. By the time he got to the part where he was tucking into the cold snack, Samantha was fast asleep and he tiptoed out of the room and back to Myra. She rolled over as he slid into the bed.

"Sorry, did I wake ya?"

"No, I woke when you went out. I heard you talking," she said softly.

"Samantha wanted a story," he told her.

"You read her a story?" Myra said in amazement.

"No, I made one up."

"You're wonderful with her, Hank." She slid closer to kiss him. "I always thought that, right from that time I came to the saloon in the middle of the night when she wouldn't stop crying."

"She's a sweet kid," he whispered.

He drew Myra closer to him and kissed her again and this time he didn't stop. The shoulder was still sore, but he seemed to have recovered the majority of his strength and certainly his enthusiasm. He pulled Myra harder against him, his tongue plunging into her mouth, hands stroking over her body. She was no less enthusiastic than he and within moments they were tearing at each other's nightwear, breathing hard, moaning in frustration as fabric and buttons got in the way. Over excitement and long abstinence meant things ended as abruptly as they began, but afterwards they made love more slowly, taking time to kiss and touch and savour every moment. They finally slept again as dawn came, disturbed barely an hour later by Samantha calling out.

Hank opened his eyes reluctantly and looked down at Myra lying in his arms, her head resting on his chest.

"Hey." He stroked his hand over her hair and she raised her head and met his eyes. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Hank." Her lips brushed his.

"Mama!" Samantha shouted persistently.

I'm coming, honey!" Myra slid away from him and out of the bed.

Hank grinned, watching appreciatively as she walked around the bed naked to retrieve her nightgown which was lying in a heap in one corner of the room. She pulled it on quickly, giggling softly, then left the room to attend to Samantha. Hank stretched out in the bed for a moment, unable to wipe the grin off his face as he relived the events of the night. Then he reluctantly got out of the bed and began to get dressed. Only one more day and he would have to leave. He intended to make the most of every minute.


	49. Chapter 49

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Christmas Day passed much too quickly with present opening, playing with Samantha and her new toys and enjoying Christmas dinner. Hank was surprised to find that Myra had bought two gifts for him without him even knowing about it and he loved both. She had chosen a beautiful silver pocket watch - something he had never owned and occasionally thought he ought to get for himself - and the other larger box held a new hat, similar to his old one which was scuffed, dusty and ready to be thrown out. Myra loved the new nightgown and tried it on that night, along with another dab of perfume, although the pretty pink garment didn't stay on her very long.

All too soon it was Thursday and they ate breakfast together in silence, both reluctant to leave the house as it meant Myra going back to work and Hank leaving on the train. Hank didn't need to leave until ten o'clock so they said goodbye and he remained at the house for another hour after Myra and Samantha went out.

He vowed to return quickly, at least within a month, but it seemed like an endless period of time as he later sat on the train, gradually being taken further and further away from St Louis. When he finally arrived back in Colorado Springs on Saturday morning, of course the first person he saw was Horace, standing on the platform waiting to help anyone who needed it. He was the last person Hank wanted to see at that moment. All he could think about was the fact that Myra was eight hundred miles away and he didn't know how he would stand it until he could go back.

"Mornin', Horace," he grunted, stepping around the other man. Horace turned, strode past him and halted in front of him, forcing him to stop again.

"What were ya doin' in St Louis, Hank?" he demanded.

"What makes ya think I was there?"

"You were in the newspaper. Dorothy gets lots of papers, includin' one from St Louis. So what were ya doin' there?"

"Mind yer own business," Hank said.

"No, I won't. Ya went to see Myra, didn't ya?" Horace persisted.

"Horace, I went to see she how she was," said Hank with a sigh, deciding it best not to tell him Myra had written to him.

"Ya got no right!" exclaimed Horace, his eyes bulging with sudden anger.

"I got every right!" Hank snapped back. "She ain't yours no more, ya divorced her! You ain't the only one that suffered, Horace. How'd ya think she felt gettin' a wire from Michaela last year tellin' her ya tried to do yerself in? Huh? It was me told her to go back there and forget about all this! I figured it was time someone checked she was alright after everythin' that happened."

"Oh!" Horace sighed heavily and his shoulders sagged. "I didn't know. How is Myra?"

"She's fine."

"What about the robbery? She wasn't hurt?"

"No one got hurt, 'cept me and the robbers."

Horace nodded. "Well, maybe it's a good thing you were there, then," he conceded. "I just want her to be happy, that's all. She never was with me."

Hank raised an eyebrow, surprised by Horace's words. "Well, she is now," he said. "I gotta go." He stepped past Horace again and headed for the Gold Nugget.

Jake wasn't there yet and the girls were still in bed, but the hotel manager was attending to a couple of guests who wanted coffee. Hank strode in and went straight up to his room to get changed and dump his bag. By the time he returned to the bar, Jake had come in.

"Thought you were never gonna come back," he said with a grin. "Least ya got a good excuse."

"Intended to be back long before now," Hank said.

"Too busy bein' a hero, huh?" Jake pointed at a copy of the St Louis newspaper which was lying on a table.

"How many copies of that did Dorothy get?" he asked.

"One originally, then she sent for some extra ones. She reckons she's gonna interview ya for the Gazette too. Sounds like yer lucky to be alive."

Hank smirked. "It was nothin', I was hardly at death's door like it says."

"Yeah, ya probably made the most of it, all them pretty nurses runnin' round ya."

Hank snorted now. "So what's been goin' on here? I miss anythin'?"

"No. You ain't gettin' away that easy, Hank. What about Myra?"

"What about her?"

"Well, since ya don't look ready to kill somebody, I guess she musta been glad to see ya."

"Obviously, since she asked me to go visit in the first place."

"Well? What happened? Ya carry on where ya left off before Horace stuck his oar in?" pressed Jake.

"Go to hell," Hank said with a grin. "It's my business."

"Easier gettin' blood out of a stone," Jake muttered. "I gotta go open the barber's shop, I'll be in later for a drink."

He left the hotel and Hank poured himself a whiskey and lit up a cigar, then sat down in a corner of the bar. Myra and St Louis suddenly seemed an awful long way away.

He was just finishing the cigar when Dorothy walked into the hotel, her reporter's notepad hanging around her neck and a determined look on her face. Hank rolled his eyes up and blew his breath out loudly as she glanced from left to right and then made a beeline for him.

"Good mornin', Hank," she began.

"Dorothy," he nodded.

"May I sit?"

"Sure." He gestured at the chair on the other side of the table and she sat down quickly.

"I read about what happened with the bank robbery – the St Louis Post is one of the papers I subscribe to."

"So I've been hearin'. What about it?"

"Well, I was wonderin' if I could interview you for the Gazette. Folks would like to read about what happened from your point of view. It's not often one of our town does somethin' so noteworthy."

"Get on," drawled Hank with a smirk. "Folks 'round here ain't never gonna see me as a hero."

"Some already do. You saved people's lives, Hank, and brought down the McDonald gang. That's somethin'."

"I guess." Hank raised one eyebrow. He hadn't minded in the least being called 'brave' in the St Louis newspaper. "What d'ya wanna know?"

"Why don't ya start by tellin' me what ya were doin' in St Louis?" asked Dorothy.

"Lookin' for talent," grinned Hank.

"Oh! Well, maybe we'll skip that part." Dorothy lowered the pencil which she had poised over her notepad, a slight frown on her face.

"I'm jokin', Dorothy. Look, maybe this is a bad idea. I ain't sayin' why I was there, I don't want that in the Gazette."

"Did ya go to see Myra?" Dorothy asked in a low voice. "I know she works in the bank there."

Hank scowled. "Print that and I'll sue you and the Gazette for every cent ya got!"

"Alright, Hank, why don't I just say you were on business?" she said with a sigh. "Folks won't care what you were doin' anyway, they'll just wanna know about the robbery."

"Fine. I was on business. I was walkin' down the street where the bank was and somethin' was clearly goin' on, folks stood around outside whisperin'..."

Dorothy scribbled avidly on her notepad, occasionally interrupting with questions until Hank had finished describing the robbery.

"So what happened afterwards?" she said then.

"Dunno. I was out of it for three days. Ain't nothin' more to tell."

"But what have ya been doin' since? The robbery was three weeks ago now."

"Convalescin'," said Hank. "That's it. Like I said, ain't nothin' more to tell."

"Alright, Hank." Dorothy pushed her chair back now and got up. "I'll put this in the next issue of the Gazette."

She left the hotel and Hank put his feet up on the chair she had vacated, pulling out another cigar. After only a couple of hours in Colorado Springs, already he was longing to go and get on the next train back to St Louis. However, his thoughts were soon interrupted by the girls appearing, surprisingly glad to see him after his unkindness to them before he left. They flocked around him, squealing and chattering about what a hero he was and how delighted they were to have him back. He grinned and couldn't resist boasting a little, relishing the attention, but in the end he was glad when they left him alone.

However, late that night when the bar finally closed, he was already half asleep when he was disturbed by Suzie, one of the newest girls, creeping into his room and slipping into bed with him.

"Thought ya might be wantin' some company," she purred, snuggling up to him. "We all missed ya." She stroked her hand over his chest and touched her lips to his cheek.

Suzie was young and lithe, probably only twenty years old and with masses of golden hair which now brushed his face as she leaned over him. His body reacted to her immediately and he lifted his hand to touch her breast, but even as he did it he thought to himself, 'What the hell're ya doin'? How can ya think about marryin' Myra, someone ya love, and then carry on behavin' like a dog?'

"Get outta here!" he snarled, shoving his hand roughly against Suzie's shoulder, much harder than he intended. She flew off the bed and landed on the floor with a thud and a squeal.

"Why'd ya do that?" she whined, sitting up.

"If I want company, I'll ask for it!" he barked at her. "In the future, keep outta my room 'less yer invited!"

"Fine!" Suzie scrambled to her feet, flounced out and slammed the door behind her.

Hank lay back against the pillows with a sigh and closed his eyes, briefly thinking that if Suzie gossiped, his reputation would be ruined. Still, that would happen anyway before too long. What was more important? Being happy or having the likes of Loren and Jake pull his leg? He grinned now in the darkness, picturing Loren catching flies and Jake getting his own back for the amount of times he'd teased him about Teresa Morales. However, surprisingly it wasn't Loren and Jake who discovered his intentions towards Myra, but Horace.

A few days later Hank went into the telegraph office to send a letter to Zack. Dorothy's edition of the Gazette featuring Hank on the front page had since come out and a copy was lying on the counter in front of Horace. He eyed it with a grin; Dorothy had actually made a pretty good job of it and a number of people had commented on his heroism since reading it.

"Suppose yer proud of yerself," Horace grunted.

"Ain't often folks say anythin' good about me."

"Ain't often ya do anythin' good. So, did ya see much of Myra after?"

"Some. She cared for me after I got shot," admitted Hank, wondering where the conversation was going. Horace was going to be the hardest obstacle to get around if Myra were to come back to Colorado Springs, because she wouldn't want to hurt his feelings. Horace's face paled a little and his jaw twitched.

"You asked," Hank reminded him.

"Yeah. Well, like ya said, she ain't mine no more," muttered Horace.

"She ain't mine neither, but I'm hopin' she might wanna be," Hank said slowly.

"Ya want her to work for you again?" demanded Horace, his face shocked now. "Is that all ya think about? Usin' folks to make money? Myra's got a good job, she won't wanna work for you, especially considerin' how ya treated her before! And what about Samantha?"

"Woah, Horace, slow down, I don't want her to work for me, I wanna marry her!" blurted out Hank.

Horace's stunned expression only increased at this announcement. "_You_ wanna get _married?" _he said incredulously.

"That so strange?"

"You ain't the marryin' type," Horace pointed out.

"I didn't used to be. You gettin' there first kinda changed my mind," admitted Hank.

Horace eyed him thoughtfully for a long moment before he spoke again. "Does she love ya?" he asked at last.

"She says so."

"Then ask her," Horace said shortly.

"Ya givin' me permission, Horace?" Hank teased, more surprised than Horace had looked at his confession that he wanted to get married. The whole conversation had surprised him, considering that Horace had always hated him.

"I want Myra to be happy. If ya make her happy – and I have to say I can't figure out why, but if ya do - then I ain't gonna say nothin'. Only thing that concerns me is Samantha. I barely see her as it is," Horace said now.

"That's somethin' yer gonna have to sort out with Myra, but I ain't gonna be gettin' in the way of ya seein' yer kid, Horace. Fact is, ya'll probably see more of her than ya have in a while if they move back here."

"They plannin' on comin' back, then?"

"We ain't really talked about it, but I guess they will if I marry her. 'Less she'd rather stay in St Louis."

"You'd give up the Gold Nugget?" asked Horace.

"If I have to."

Horace nodded and took a deep breath. "Fine," he said. "That'll be a nickel for the letter."

"Sure." Hank handed over the coin and left the telegraph office, not quite sure whether Horace had really said all of those things or if he'd imagined it. Then he remembered Myra's wedding, how he'd gone there to support her despite hating every minute of it, just because he had wanted her to be happy. He guessed it wasn't so far-fetched that Horace would do something similar for her. He sure hadn't done it to please Hank.


	50. Chapter 50

CHAPTER FIFTY

The gossip around town in the aftermath of Dorothy's article on the robbery had only just begun to die down when Hank was once again called upon to be a hero. It was approaching noon and Hank and the manager of the Gold Nugget were counting out some money to pay Loren for the latest order of whiskey when the sound of a gunshot close by made everyone in the building jump. Hank rushed outside looking left and right and noticed a man leaping onto his horse outside the clinic and galloping away. A number of other people ran out into the street to find out what had happened and several followed Hank as he ran across to the clinic. The door was open and the first thing he saw was Michaela lying on the floor, a bullet wound in her left shoulder. Who the hell would shoot a doctor? A woman doctor at that.

"Hank!" she gasped.

"Hang on, Michaela. Hang on," he said, dropping to his knees and gathering her into his arms. "Oh my God!" He was horrified by the look of her, frozen with fear and pain, her face white, blood soaking her clothing. He scrambled to his feet, gritting his teeth as his recently healed shoulder, although no longer painful, felt weaker than it had been before he was injured. He sidled out of the door, yelling at the people on the porch to get out of the way so he could get to the street.

"Somebody get me a wagon! We need a wagon!" he yelled at the top of his voice. Loren stood nearby, mouth hanging open in horror, feet rooted to the spot and Dorothy came running from the Gazette office. A farmer who had been at Loren's store stocking up on supplies whipped his horses into action and drove them towards Hank. Cloud Dancing, who had also been at Loren's, ran after the wagon and leaped into the back.

Hank carefully lifted Michaela into the wagon and climbed in himself. He had seen the man who hurt her just briefly, but enough to get a description and he shouted this over his shoulder to anyone listening, with instructions to pass it onto Daniel. Already the wagon was moving, on its way to Andrew Cook's clinic at Preston's hotel, and he shrugged his coat off to cover Michaela while Cloud Dancing applied pressure to the wound. He glanced sideways at the Indian, thinking it odd that both of them were now working together to try to save Michaela, when usually Hank was routing for the army to kill the Cheyenne.

The journey to the Chateau took only minutes, but it seemed endless. At last they halted noisily outside the main entrance and Andrew ran out to find out what had caused the commotion. Hank picked up Michaela again and carried her into the clinic, lowering her onto the table where Andrew indicated. Then he and Cloud Dancing hovered anxiously as Andrew examined the wound and then began giving instructions. Hank, by now covered in blood himself, began cleaning around the wound while Cloud Dancing disappeared to find suitable thread to stitch the artery which the bullet had nicked. Hank didn't have much confidence in Andrew, who was sweating and panting with nerves and confessed he had never done the procedure he was about to attempt. However, he managed to successfully repair the damage, remove the bullet and stitch up the wound and heaved a sigh of relief as he bandaged Michaela's shoulder.

"She gonna be alright?" asked Hank.

"I'm not sure," Andrew confessed shakily. "She lost a lot of blood. It's too soon to know."

"I lost a lotta blood and I'm alright," said Hank.

"You're much stronger than Michaela," Andrew pointed out. "All we can do now is wait."

"I will tell the others the news," Cloud Dancing advised and went outside.

"Hank, perhaps you'd carry her to one of the hotel rooms," Andrew said now. "She'll need to rest quietly until she regains consciousness." He didn't add _if_ she regains consciousness.

"Sure." Hank lifted her once again, willing his right arm not to give out on him, and followed Andrew to one of the hotel's fancy rooms. He placed her carefully on the bed and then left the doctor to it, there being nothing else for him to do. Dorothy and Brian were outside waiting to see Michaela and Matthew had galloped off to find Sully to bring him back. Hank retrieved his coat from the back of the wagon where it still lay and the farmer drove him back into town.

Michaela stayed at the Chateau for three days after the operation and reports came from the hotel that she was recovering well. Sully took her back to their homestead where she stayed for another two weeks before she returned to her clinic. Hank was outside saddling his horse ready to go and check his traps when Sully walked over to him and he wondered what he could possibly want. They had never really seen eye to eye and over the past year things had been even worse, given Sully insisting on helping the Indians when they'd been attacking the town, followed by him spending weeks pretending to be dead to avoid arrest.

"Hank, can I talk to ya?" Sully asked now.

"Whaddya want?" Hank grunted.

"Look, I know there's been a lot of bad blood between us lately, but I just wanna thank you for savin' Michaela's life," said Sully earnestly.

That was a surprise. Sully thanking him for something? Still, he supposed he would say thanks to anybody who did something to help Myra. Even so, he didn't really feel he'd done anything on this occasion; it wasn't like the bank in St Louis.

"That was Andrew's doin', not mine," he replied.

"But you found her and brought her to him. I just wanna say I'm grateful, that's all," Sully went on, now offering his hand to Hank.

Hank nodded briefly at last and shook hands, his eyebrows rising as Sully walked away. The least likely people were certainly behaving curiously towards him lately - first Horace and now Sully.

There were still more surprises to come. He had just returned from checking his traps, finding only a couple of rabbits in them, when Jake exited the barber's shop and strode across to the front of the Gold Nugget where Hank was unloading his horse. Jake was grinning from ear to ear as if he'd won big at poker, although that was hardly likely.

"Been lookin' for ya," he said.

"Oh, yeah?" Hank eyed him over the horse's neck. "What for?"

"I wanna have a little party in the bar Friday night."

"Well, it's half yours, Jake, I'm sure ya don't need help organisin' it," Hank grunted.

"Yeah, but it's gonna be my party, see?" grinned Jake.

"No, I don't see. What d'ya want a party for? Yer birthday, is it?" Hank dumped the items he had unloaded on the porch and began to lead the horse around to the corral. Jake followed.

"I'm gettin' married," he said. "Sunday. Teresa's folks're visitin'. They'll be stayin' here at the hotel."

Hank stopped now and laughed loudly. "Yer marryin' her? Hell, Jake ya took yer time askin'!"

"I was waitin' for the right moment."

Hank snorted, feeling a bit of a fraud as he imagined what Jake would say if he confessed he was intending to go back to St Louis shortly and propose to Myra.

"Where ya gonna live?" he asked. "Movin' her in over yer shop?"

"Temporarily," Jake said. "I'm gonna build her a house."

"Right. Found a tree growin' money, did ya?" Hank turned the horse loose now. "Well, I guess congratulations are in order." He shook Jake's hand. "Ya told Loren yet?"

"What do you think?"

"Huh, no, otherwise I'd've been hearin' this from him and not you," Hank grinned. "Least when ya do tell him, it'll save ya puttin' it in the Gazette."

By Friday night, everyone in town knew Jake was planning to make an honest woman of Teresa Morales and the bar was full as people toasted the mayor. Hank and Loren plied him with whiskey and teased him mercilessly about Teresa and how he was going to end up with little half-Mexican children with names like Pedro and Poncho Slicker. Jake's sense of humour began to desert him, especially when Hank presented him with a Sombrero that Loren had managed to obtain from Denver on special order.

Jake's wedding was a quiet affair in the end. Teresa's aunt and cousin objected strongly to her marrying a 'gringo' and didn't think Jake was up to the job of providing Teresa with a decent life, but in the end the cousin, who was a priest, changed his opinion and he and the Reverend both performed a ceremony for the couple outside the church. No one was actually invited to join the celebration, but half the town wandered over there to watch when they realised what was going on.

Two weeks later Hank planned to return to St Louis, realising he would have to leave the Gold Nugget in the hands of the manager, with Jake still languishing in his honeymoon period and consequently not much good for anything except making cow eyes at Teresa. However, before he had chance to let anyone know of his intentions, Jake thwarted his plans.

"Hank, I wanna talk to ya," he said, no grin in evidence this time.

"What is it now?" Hank frowned, irritated by the interruption to his thoughts about Myra.

"I wanna sell my share of the Gold Nugget; are ya interested?"

_"What_?" Hank exclaimed. "Yer sellin'? Why?"

"I need the money to build a house," said Jake.

Hank sighed heavily. He should have seen it coming really, Jake newly married and wanting to give Teresa a decent home, but he'd been so wrapped up his own plans he hadn't considered it.

"Whaddya want for it?" he asked.

"Give me yer best offer. I'll come back later; leave ya to think on it," Jake said and walked out.

"Damnit!" muttered Hank, slamming his hand down onto the bar. The last thing he wanted was to think about business at that moment, but then again, he supposed it wasn't going to hold things up any by handing over some cash to Jake and leaving the manager in charge, just like he had intended to anyway. He poured himself a drink, lit a cigar and sat down to think about it. The Gold Nugget hadn't been doing so well since they opened the hotel part - the saloon was keeping it afloat and in a way he wished now he had left it as a saloon. Jake had invested all that he got for that nugget left to him by his father, but no way was Jake's share of the business worth that now. After considering a while longer, Hank wrote _$1,000_ on a scrap of paper and then kept an eye out for Jake coming back. He returned a couple of hours later with Teresa. Hank went out to meet them and passed the slip of paper to Jake.

"A thousand dollars?" said Jake scornfully.

"Ya wanted my best offer," Hank reminded him.

"My share of the Gold Nugget's worth a lot more than a thousand dollars." Jake shoved the slip of paper back into his hand.

"Maybe a while back it was, but not now," Hank said. "Business ain't been that good and we got expenses."

"You wouldn't have a hotel if it wasn't for the gold nugget my pa left me and that nugget was worth twice that much!" exclaimed Jake.

"Well, maybe I was better off when this was just my saloon. The hotel's what's been draggin' us down. Ya want a better offer? Go find one," Hank said with a smirk, guessing there wasn't a soul in town who had the kind of money to even match his offer, much less better it. Grinning, he left Jake and Teresa standing outside and strode back into the bar, assuming Jake would be back within a day or two to accept the offer.

Meanwhile, he advised the manager he would be leaving for St Louis on Thursday and the length of his stay wasn't certain. He would be back, but it may be a week or several.

"Somethin' important?" the man asked him.

"Yeah. Tell ya when I get back." Since Horace apparently hadn't said anything to the other townsfolk about his intentions, he decided to keep it to himself until after he saw Myra. There was always the chance she'd refuse him and then he'd just look like a fool. He hadn't really considered that option up to now, but with only days until he saw her, he began to think she may have since thought better of what had happened between them at Christmas. He wrote her a brief letter, telling her he intended to arrive in St Louis the following Saturday and then went to the telegraph office to send it.

Horace eyed the envelope with raised eyebrows.

"I'm goin' to see her next week; thought I better warn her," Hank said.

"That'll be a nickel."

"You are gonna send that, right?" said Hank drily.

"Of course. I took an oath!" exclaimed Horace indignantly. "I'd be breakin' the company's trust if I interfered with the mail!"

Hank grinned. "Good man." He strolled back to the Gold Nugget, pausing a couple of times to speak to people on the way, wondering what he was going to do about getting a ring. He guessed he would find one in Denver. He'd be stuck there a few hours waiting for the connecting train anyway. He sat down in a corner of the bar now, thinking he should make the time to spend an hour with Zack too on the way out and tell him what he was planning.

"Hank!"

He looked up to find Jake standing in front of him.

"What?"

"I did what ya said. I sold my share to Preston."

"You _what_?" cried Hank, horrified. Preston Lodge? That jumped up little fool suddenly owned half of his business?

"Well, ya told me to find a better offer and I did," Jake said smugly. "Effective immediately."

"You can't do this!" Hank protested.

"It's done."

"I ain't goin' into business with Preston," continued Hank.

"No? Well, ya shoulda offered me more money," said Jake, grinning. He turned and walked out, leaving Hank fuming. What the hell was he going to do now? Preston owned half of the Gold Nugget - how could he possibly go to St Louis? He'd likely come back and find all manner of changes implemented, the girls gone and heaven knew what else. He swore under his breath and shoved his chair back from the table. Something had to be done. Still, there was always the chance Myra wouldn't want to come back to Colorado Springs, in which case he'd be selling his own share of the business at some point. In the meantime though, he would have to stay.

Hank hurried to the telegraph office again and waited impatiently while Horace handed Dorothy a parcel and sent a telegram for Michaela. At last it was his turn.

"Horace, did ya send that letter?" he demanded.

"I told you I would, didn't I? It went on the train a half hour ago. I'd been failin' in my job if I didn't...!" Horace began, looking angry and insulted.

"Well, I didn't want it sendin'," said Hank.

"Then why'd ya give it to me?"

"I mean, I was hopin' it'd still be here, so I could get it back. Things've changed." Hank groaned. "Alright, look, can ya send a wire for me?"

"Certainly. It'll cost ya ten cents a word."

"Whatever."

"Who's it goin' to?" Horace grabbed a pencil.

"Myra."

Horace looked up again, eyebrows raised, then began writing.

"Myra, you will get a letter from me...Horace, how long does the mail take?" Hank asked suddenly.

"She'll get the letter in two or three days," said Horace.

"Right. Where was I?"

"...you will get a letter from me," read Horace.

"...in a couple of days sayin' I'm comin' to St Louis next week. Change of plan, I'm sorry. Jake sold his half of the hotel to Preston..."

"He did _what_?" exclaimed Horace, looking up again. "Why would he do a thing like that?"

"Horace, ya took an oath!" growled Hank.

"Right. Carry on." Still looking astonished, Horace lowered his pencil to the sheet of paper.

"...so I have to stay for a while," Hank continued. "Hopefully I'll be there soon. I miss you."

"That's it?" asked Horace.

"Yeah."

"How're ya signin' it?"

"Hank, obviously. Don't ya put who it's from anyhow?"

"Yes, of course." Horace finished writing and turned away to send the telegram. Hank waited until he finished. "There, it's sent. That'll be five dollars and twenty cents."

"How much?" Hank demanded incredulously.

"Ten cents a word, I told ya. There were fifty-two words. Count 'em if ya like!" Horace challenged, holding out the paper with the message written on it.

"I'll take yer word for it, Horace." Hank counted out the money and returned slowly to the Gold Nugget, wondering what on earth he was going to do about Preston. He sure as hell wasn't going to work as his partner; he'd finish up killing him.


	51. Chapter 51

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Hank paused at the door to the Gold Nugget and then turned and headed for the bank, deciding not to waste any time in tackling Preston. Maybe somehow he could be persuaded - or conned - into selling his share of the hotel back to Hank. However, he found the bank locked up with a 'closed' sign hanging outside. He hammered on the door and peered through the window, but there was no sign of Preston in there. Hank assumed he must have gone to the Chateau, but couldn't be bothered riding over there to look for him. He strode back down the street to the Gold Nugget; Preston would show up sooner or later and when he did...

"Psst! Hank!"

Hank halted, eyes widening as he spotted the very man he had been looking for lurking around the side of the saloon and beckoning urgently to him. He strode towards him quickly.

"I need to talk to ya!" Preston exclaimed at once.

"Damn straight ya do, Jake had no business doin' what he did and I'm not...!"

"I wanna sell my share of the Gold Nugget," interrupted Preston. "Are you interested?"

Hank was stunned. Preston had bought Jake's share probably not much more than an hour ago. "You wanna sell yer share? The same one ya just bought from Jake?" he said.

"Yes!" Preston glanced behind him and then over Hank's shoulder, as if he expected someone to be listening in.

"What's the catch?" asked Hank with a frown.

"No catch. Are you interested or not?"

"Sure I'm interested. My offer's the same one I made to Jake." He paused briefly. He had offered Jake a thousand dollars, but he doubted Preston knew that. Besides, Preston was looking pretty desperate. "Eight hundred dollars," he added.

"Eight hundred! That's robbery!" Preston cried.

Hank said nothing, but merely raised one eyebrow and waited.

"Okay, fine. Eight hundred," said Preston. "But I need the money right now."

"Sure," Hank agreed, grinning now, unable to believe his luck. He didn't much care why Preston suddenly seemed keen to obtain some cash. The Gold Nugget was all his, for a lot less than it was worth. He patted Preston on the shoulder and led him into the building. "Wait there," he said, leaving Preston in the bar while he went up to his room.

The metal box beneath his bed was crammed with so many bills it would barely shut and he relieved it of eight hundred dollars, then returned to the bar. Preston was sitting at a table in the corner, looking as shifty as a bank robber. A folded document lay on the table in front of him and when Hank sat down, Preston pushed it towards him. It was the agreement he and Jake had signed. Preston had added another line to the bottom of it, stating that he was passing over his share in the business to Hank for the sum of eight hundred dollars.

"Ya didn't waste no time," grunted Hank, giving him the money.

"I'm in a hurry, Hank."

"Lose a wager or somethin'?" Hank picked up the pen which lay on the table and signed the document.

"In a manner of speaking." Preston shoved his chair back and got up. "Pleasure doing business." He was gone before Hank could even shake his hand.

Hank began to grin now, looking around him at the saloon, the hotel, the manager behind the bar and the girls, a couple of guests sitting in a corner drinking coffee. It was all his. Which meant there was nothing stopping him going to St Louis right away - or in a couple of days after he'd had time to gloat a little. He thought about the letter and the telegram he'd sent Myra and considered sending another message, but then decided against it. He would surprise her instead. In the meantime, he couldn't wait to pay Jake a little visit.

"What d'ya want, Hank?" Jake said warily as Hank stepped into the barber's shop. Loren was in the chair, lathered in soap and about to be shaved.

Hank grinned. "Just came to say thanks."

"Huh?" Jake gave a puzzled frown.

"For refusin' my offer."

"I thought ya didn't wanna be in business with Preston."

"I ain't. He sold his share to me. For less than I offered you," smirked Hank. "I'm sole owner."

Jake and Loren both looked astonished now.

"Why would he do that?" wondered Loren. "He must be desperate for money."

"But he's rich," said Jake.

"Seems not." Hank walked out again, still grinning. He didn't much care why Preston had sold to him. He was better off than he had been just hours before.

The next day revealed why Preston had been so keen to sell. He had since called in Dorothy's loan on the Gazette and advertised the Chateau for sale, then locked himself in the bank. The Denver Herald arrived announcing the stock market had crashed and people all across the country were trying to get their money out of the banks. Within minutes of the arrival of the newspaper in Colorado Springs, the message was being passed from one person to another and pretty soon a crowd had gathered outside the bank, yelling at Preston to come out and give them their money. It seemed he had gambled the money on stocks and lost it, leaving many people with nothing.

Hank just shrugged when he heard the news. The only person who gambled his money was himself and he usually won - it was safer in its box under his bed than in any bank. He packed a bag now and told the manager he was leaving for St Louis.

"How long will ya be?" the man asked.

"A week, maybe two or three."

"I wonder if I might ask for a small advance? My money was all in the bank."

"That'll teach ya. I keep mine with me." Hank grinned now and pulled twenty dollars out of his pocket. "This do?"

"Sure. Thanks, Hank, I appreciate it."

Hank nodded. "Ya need any more, keep some back from the takin's and pay the girls outta what they bring in. If I stay longer than planned, I'll send a wire."

Two hours later, Hank was on the train to Denver, his best suit and shirts in his bag and a smile on his face. He couldn't wait to see Myra. He stayed one night in Denver, then spent an hour in the morning at a jewellery store, picking out a ring. He had no idea what would be suitable, only that it had to be different from the one Horace had given her. That had been a single small diamond.

"Diamonds are traditional," the female assistant told him as she showed him a whole tray of diamond rings. "Ladies all love diamonds. How about something like this?" She indicated a single large diamond which shone in the sunlight coming through the window like the moon when it was full. It would dwarf Myra's small slim fingers. Hank shook his head.

"She wouldn't like it."

"Well, other stones are starting to become popular in engagement rings," the lady said doubtfully. "We have some rubies and sapphires." She put the tray of diamonds away and brought out another smaller tray with rings set with red and blue stones. Most were large and not particularly attractive, but one at the edge of the tray caught Hank's eye. Five small rubies set in a row with the tiniest of diamonds filling in the gaps left by the curves of the red stones. The whole was set in a narrow gold band. He lifted it out of the tray and examined it more closely. He could see Myra wearing it. He looked at the assistant's hands now, small, slender hands much like Myra's.

"Will ya try it on? Her hands are about the size of yours," he said.

"Of course, Sir." She took the ring and slipped it onto her finger, then held her hand up for inspection. It fitted perfectly and the stones were exactly the right size.

"I'll take it."

"Would you like to know the price first?" asked the lady.

"I don't care."

"Very well." She took the ring off, placed it in a small velvet lined box and left it on the counter while she put away the tray of rings. Hank took the box and put it into the inside pocket of his coat.

"That'll be sixty dollars, please, Sir."

Hank handed over the money, straining to keep a poker face as he thought the cost of that tiny little ring was the equivalent of two good horses. Still, if Myra said yes it would be worth every cent.

He left the store now and headed for Zack's school where he spent the lunch break with his son. Zack remembered Myra as the girl who had called to see him every month when he lived at Ruby's cabin. She had always been sweet to him and he said he'd be happy if Hank married her.

Eventually Hank returned to the railway station again and caught the mid-afternoon train to St Louis. The day and a half long journey passed very slowly and at last he reached the city early on Friday morning. He went straight to Mrs Claybourne's guest house and took a room for a week, telling her he would let her know if he wanted it any longer after the weekend. He then took a bath and put on some fresh clothes, then wandered around the streets of St Louis until the pocket watch Myra had bought him told him she would be finishing work in a few minutes.

Myra came out at five minutes past one and found Hank leaning against the wall a few feet away from the door. She didn't see him immediately, until she began walking in his direction and then she stopped abruptly and stared at him in amazement. He just grinned, expecting perhaps a subtle greeting since they were in the street outside her place of work, but she suddenly ran the last few feet towards him and flung her arms about him.

"Hank, what are you doing here?" she cried.

He grinned down at her, hugging her tightly to him. "Another change of plan. Thought I'd surprise ya rather than send yet another message. Ya did get the other one?"

"Yes, and the letter came yesterday. I thought you wouldn't be here for weeks yet."

"It all changed. I'll tell ya later." Hank smirked now as he spotted a young man and an older lady peering out of the bank window. "Yer colleagues are lookin'."

"Let them." Myra stood on tiptoe to give him a light kiss. "I have to pick up Samantha, will you come with me?"

"Sure."

She slid her hand through his arm and they walked to the house of the lady who now watched Samantha, collected the little girl and then headed for the park. Despite still only being the first week in February, the weather was unseasonably warm.

"So what happened with Preston?" Myra asked now. "You said he bought Jake's share of your hotel?"

"He sold it back to me," Hank said with a grin. "He's bankrupt. The Chateau's for sale too and half the folks in town are ready to lynch him. Hasn't the stock market affected your bank?"

"It has, but not too badly. Two of the younger staff lost their jobs, but we're still afloat. The manager only invested a portion of the funds in stocks, so we're better off than most. At least so far. What about you? Did you lose anything?"

"Are ya kiddin'?" snorted Hank. "Ya think I'd give my money to _Preston_? Except for the cash I gave him for half the Nugget, obviously. My money's in the tin under the bed where it's always been."

Myra giggled. "I might have guessed. What about everyone else?"

"I didn't hang around long enough to find out. Michaela and Sully are alright, they don't bank with Preston either. Loren banks in Denver."

Myra nodded. "What's everyone else been doing?"

"Michaela got shot," Hank began. "Jake got married..."

"Oh, my goodness!" exclaimed Myra. "Let's sit down, I want to hear all about it. Is Dr Mike alright?"

They took a seat at a picnic table, Myra holding Samantha on her lap as Hank filled her in on all the excitement, missing out the part where he took Michaela to Andrew's clinic. Almost an hour had passed by the time they had caught up on all the news.

"I'm so glad you're here," Myra said then. "I missed you." She reached across the table now slid her hand into his.

"Missed you too," Hank smiled. He slid his free hand into his coat pocket, took the ring box out beneath the table and flipped it open with his thumb. His heart began to hammer frantically and he wondered what he should say. Beat around the bush with some long-winded proposal or just blurt it out? Beating around the bush wasn't his style.

"Hank?" He looked back at Myra as she eyed him curiously.

"Somethin' I wanna ask ya," he said quickly, raising his hand to show her the ring. "Will ya be my wife?"

Myra's eyes widened, flicking from his face to the ring and back again. Her mouth opened and for a moment nothing came out of it.

"Guess ya never imagined me askin' anybody that," added Hank.

Myra smiled now. "I didn't, but after Christmas, I hoped."

"That a yes, then?" Hank prompted with a grin, relaxing slightly.

"Yes, it's a yes." Myra leaned forward above Samantha's head and brushed her lips against his. "I love you."

"Love you too." Her left hand was still in his and he took the ring out of its box now and slipped it onto her finger. It was a perfect fit, the stones small and delicate, just right for her little hands.

"It's beautiful," she said softly. "Are they rubies? I've seen them in stores and thought they're so pretty, so much warmer than diamonds."

Hank grinned. "That's what I thought. Woman in the store thought I was mad, not gettin' a diamond for ya that woulda been bigger than yer hand."

"What does she know? I love it, Hank."

"So, d'ya wanna get married here or in Colorado Springs?" he asked then. "I know yer friends are there, but I thought ya might prefer here. Thought ya wouldn't wanna rub Horace's nose in it."

"Oh dear, I'd forgotten about him," Myra said anxiously. "Anyway, what's made you so considerate all of a sudden?"

"Yer turnin' me soft," Hank smirked. "Believe it or not, me and Horace kinda called a truce. After I got back after Christmas he said he wants ya to be happy. Only thing he's worried about is not seein' Samantha."

"That's good of him," Myra said. "I thought it was odd that he sent that telegram for you."

They continued to talk about possible plans and eventually Hank agreed to accompany Myra to church on Sunday so they could speak to the Reverend after the service about arranging their wedding. Myra invited Hank to her sister's house for supper on Saturday so they could discuss their plans with Suzannah and her husband.

"Will ya wanna come back to Colorado Springs after?" Hank asked then.

"Of course," Myra said. "We'll be living there, won't we?"

"What about yer job?"

"It's not completely certain that I'll keep it," Myra said. "I know I said our bank seems not to be in trouble, but if the situation gets worse there's a chance I'll be asked to leave. Anyway, I wouldn't expect you to leave, you just got sole ownership of the hotel."

"Ya won't be worried about the gossip?" grinned Hank. "They'll have a field day over this."

"Do you really think I care?" smiled Myra. "After everything that's happened to me so far, I don't suppose it can be any worse than it already has been."

"Well, I was kinda hopin' ya'd wanna stay here so _I_ can escape 'em," teased Hank. "What d'ya think they're gonna say about me gettin' married?"

"You mean they don't know?"

"Horace has an idea, but he took an oath."

Myra giggled. "I can't wait to see the look on Loren's face, then. I hope the shock doesn't kill him. As for my job, I can get another."

"You can always work in the hotel if ya want," Hank suggested.

"No, I'm not going to work for you, Hank," Myra said at once.

"I didn't mean that exactly, I mean ya could be a sorta partner."

"No. Thank you, but no. I'll find my own job when I get there."

"That's fine," agreed Hank. "Just so long as ya know the offer's there if yer stuck."

Myra nodded and then her face suddenly split in a wide smile. "I can't believe we're getting married," she said. "You and me, after all this time."

"Yeah, just a shame I didn't find my common sense years ago, you'd've been Myra Lawson already, 'stead of Bing."

"You seem awfully sure of yourself," Myra teased. "I might have said no."

"No, ya wouldn't," grinned Hank.

"No, you're right, I probably wouldn't," she smiled. "Have you told Zack?"

"Yeah, saw him on the way here. He's glad; he remembered ya goin' to see him when ya took Ruby her money."

They continued chatting and teasing each other for some time in the park, before the air began to grow cooler and Myra decided she should get Samantha home before they caught a chill. They parted reluctantly at the edge of the park, promising to meet for lunch at the Juniper Cafe the next day, spend the afternoon together and then go for supper with Myra's sister. Hank returned to the guest house, a grin on his face which refused to be suppressed for the rest of the day.


	52. Chapter 52

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Saturday's lunch at the cafe, followed by a ride out in a buggy which Hank had hired for the afternoon was great fun, Samantha particularly enjoying the excursion out of town. Hank drove the horse fast and the little girl squealed in excitement, bouncing on Myra's lap.

Hank dropped them off at the house at four o'clock, then returned the buggy and went to the guest house to bathe and put on his best suit. He arrived for supper promptly at seven o'clock and Myra let him in. She was wearing a deep red evening gown, the exact same colour as the rubies in her ring.

"Hey, beautiful," Hank said, bending to kiss her.

"Uncle Hank!" Samantha scampered down the corridor towards him, arms stretched out and behind her two slightly older children appeared, standing still as Suzannah stepped out of the dining room behind them.

Hank scooped Samantha up into his arms and she cried out in delight, earning a disapproving frown from Myra's sister. The look switched from Samantha to Hank and he realised instantly that Suzannah was not going to make things easy for Myra with regard to her marrying him. The younger woman had come an awful long way from the shack by the creek in Denver and he wondered if her stiff-looking husband, Edward, even knew where she came from.

The meal was awkward if nothing else, with very little conversation taking place. Suzannah's children ate in silence and Samantha did her best, although her apparent delight with Hank's appearance at supper encouraged her to begin chattering to him on more than one occasion. Myra hushed her gently once and the second time Edward spoke up, reminding Samantha that children needed to be quiet at the table. Samantha fell silent, eyes round and filling with tears, her bottom lip trembling.

"Leave her alone," Hank growled.

"Hank," Myra said under her breath, eyeing him a little worriedly.

"Children are expected to exhibit good manners in this house, particularly during meals," Edward said sternly.

"Well, Sam ain't yours," Hank remarked. "Treat yer own how ya like, but leave Myra's to her."

"Who are you to give instructions on the raising of my sister-in-law's child?" asked Edward.

"Her step-father, as good as."

"But not yet. While she resides in this house, she will live by my rules."

"And thank God that ain't gonna be for much longer," grunted Hank.

Suzannah gasped and Edward's frown deepened. Myra glanced at Hank again, her head lowered, but her lips now twitching in her efforts to restrain a smile. Hank simply glowered, horrified to discover what Myra and Samantha's lives had been like since they came to St Louis.

"I dread to think how the child will turn out, with such a poor role model to influence her," Edward finished.

"I expect she will grow up happy, Edward," Myra said.

Edward didn't respond to this and after the meal ended, Suzannah went to make coffee and he sent their children from the room. Myra picked up Samantha and took her into the drawing room, holding her on her lap. Hank sat down beside her on the couch.

"Edward's exactly like my brothers," Hank whispered while they were still alone. "Who's he think he is?"

"I'm sorry," Myra said.

"Don't say sorry to me, ya can't help yer relatives," Hank grinned.

Edward and Suzannah came into the room then, Suzannah carrying a tray of coffee cups and a large jug of strong coffee. Stilted conversation continued for another hour and then Hank decided to excuse himself. He could quite easily have drawn Edward into an argument, which likely would have ended with him punching the man and he didn't want to make things more awkward for Myra. She saw him to the door now and he promised to meet them outside the church in the morning. Hank pulled the door open and then leaned against the jamb for a moment.

"Hope the Reverend ain't gonna keep us waitin' long," he grinned. "Sooner we're married, sooner I can get the pair of you away from them two sourpusses."

Myra giggled now and smothered it with her hand. "I do love Suzannah, of course I do, but I have to say I never liked her choice of husband. All his family are like that."

"Ya weren't tempted by any of his brothers, then, when ya came to her weddin'?" Hank teased.

"Mostly I was too busy thinking about you," Myra confessed.

"I worried ya wouldn't come back," admitted Hank. "Think it was then I realised I really loved ya." He reached out now and drew her closer to him, bending to kiss her. For a long moment they clung together until Suzannah interrupted.

"Myra!" she hissed. "What if the neighbours see you?"

"What if they do?" Myra said over her shoulder.

"I'll see ya tomorrow," Hank told her and walked off slowly up the drive, hoping Myra's sister and her stuffy husband weren't going to upset either her or Samantha any more.

In the morning, Hank discovered the pair of them had done just that. Myra arrived at the guest house with Samantha at nine o'clock, her eyes tired and red and her face pale. Hank took her into the lounge and closed the door.

"What happened?" he asked, resting an arm around her shoulders as they sat together on the sofa. She sighed heavily and a tear spilled over and trickled down her cheek.

"I could understand Edward, but not Suzannah," she sniffed. "They won't come to our wedding. They spent half the night after you'd gone telling me what a mistake I'm making."

"Didn't like me, huh?"

"I hadn't realised how prim Suzannah had become; Edward has influenced her so much and she's told him all about our past, how I worked for you. They think I'll end up being twice-divorced and stuck in the middle of nowhere alone with Samantha. I know that's not gonna happen, but it's still upsetting to hear." Myra pulled out a lace-edged hankerchief and dabbed at her tears. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, better to let it out," Hank said. "Don't let 'em bother ya. I know she's yer sister, but from what I can see, since she went off to college yer nothin' alike and it's you that's the better person. If they ain't gonna come to the weddin', it's them's missin' out. It's gonna be our day, the way we want it. The hell with 'em."

Myra smiled wanly. "You're right. I'm just gonna tell Suzannah she's welcome at the ceremony, but she and Edward can stop their interfering." She wiped her eyes again and straightened up. "We better get to the church, otherwise we'll end up arriving in the middle of the service and giving them something else to disapprove of." She smirked a little now.

"God forbid," grinned Hank. He got to his feet and picked up Samantha. "Gonna sit with Uncle Hank in church?"

"Yeah!" exclaimed Samantha, wrapping her arms around his neck.

The service was long and Hank and Samantha both did their best not to yawn and fidget, while Myra sat beside them pursing her lips up in an effort not to smile and Suzannah and Edward, the other side of Myra, frowned in Hank's direction occasionally. Afterwards, the pair stalked off with their children, leaving Hank and Myra behind.

After everyone had left the church, Myra introduced the Reverend to Hank and he was delighted to hear they were to be married. He offered them a choice of Friday afternoon or the following Sunday after the usual service.

"Friday," Hank and Myra both said together, without even looking at each other.

The Reverend smiled. "You two are so obviously in tune, I'm sure your life together will be very happy."

The time was agreed for two o'clock and then Hank accompanied Myra and Samantha back to the house to convey the news to Suzannah and Edward, even though they had already told Myra they wouldn't be attending. Neither of them said much, but both made it clear they thought Myra would regret it and refused to support her by attending.

"Well, that's up to you," Myra said. "I'm sorry you feel that way, but I know I'm making the right decision. I'll be out of your house on Friday and we'll be leaving for Colorado on Saturday morning."

"You don't have to go," Suzannah said suddenly. "Perhaps you could find a home here in St Louis."

"I don't want to stay in St Louis," Myra told her. "All my friends are in Colorado Springs and Hank has a business and home there."

"You mean saloon," Edward muttered. "What kind of home is that for a child?"

"It's an hotel," Myra said, moving towards the door again. "We're going out, please don't expect us back for supper."

Hank opened the door for her and picked up Samantha.

"Ya wanna go back to the guest house?" he asked as they walked up the drive.

Myra nodded, gripping his arm tightly. She looked miserable and he seethed quietly, wishing he could have gone back and confronted Edward with his fists. It wouldn't help the situation, but it would have made him feel better.

Myra and Samantha stayed at the guest house until the evening. Mrs Claybourne even provided the three of them with supper, sympathetic when Hank explained Myra's family weren't happy with her choice of husband and wouldn't make him welcome at their house. The woman, who had spent thirty years happily married before her husband died, liked to see couples in love and wished them well. Hank told her he would be keeping his room until after the wedding, but moving out afterwards to spend one night in an hotel with Myra and Samantha before they left for Colorado.

Hank walked Myra home in the evening, carrying Samantha who was now sleeping and said goodbye to them at the door, promising to meet up for lunch after Myra finished work the next day. However, he had plans of his own for the morning.

At ten o'clock on Monday he was back at Suzannah's house, deciding to see if there was anything he could do to improve things between Myra and her sister. It seemed Edward was a lost cause, but Suzannah had at least showed some disappointment that Myra would be leaving St Louis.

He rang the bell and waited. A moment later Suzannah opened the door herself. The house seemed very quiet and he guessed Edward was at work and the children at school.

"What are you doing here?" Suzannah asked primly.

"I wanna talk to ya," said Hank.

"Well, I'm sorry, it's not convenient just now."

She clearly wasn't doing anything important and merely wanted to avoid talking to him. He pushed the door wider now and stepped into the hallway. "Make it convenient, then!"

"How dare you! I'll have you arrested!" cried Suzannah, taking several steps backwards.

"For what? Talkin'? Listen to me, Suzannah. Ya may not like me; I don't much care whether ya do or ya don't. But I'm guessin' ya care for yer sister," he began.

"Of course I do, that's why I don't want to see her making the mistake of tying herself to you again!"

"I ain't finished!" growled Hank. "Myra started workin' for me to put a roof over yer head, to make sure ya had food and clothes and an education. She didn't have to do it, she chose to 'cause she thought it was her best option. Then she carried on workin' for me, even though she coulda left if she wanted, so you could go to college and have a chance to get yer rich husband and yer fancy house. She did that for _you_! She saved every penny for it, never bought herself a thing."

A mixture of emotions passed over Suzannah's face, from shock to guilt and finally sadness.

"I ain't pretendin' I'm a saint all of a sudden," Hank continued. "Far from it. I made more mistakes in ten years than most folks make in their whole lives, but things are different now. I'm what Myra wants and I'm gonna marry her and give her and Samantha a better life than either of 'em had so far, so don't ya think you owe her just a tiny bit of support after all she done for you?"

Suzannah remained silent for a long moment, staring back at him, her teeth nibbling at her lower lip. "I'm sorry, Hank. You're right," she said at last. "Of course I want Myra to be happy and I have to admit, she looks happier now than I've seen her before. I just don't want to see things go wrong for her again."

"They ain't gonna go wrong," Hank said. "I'm gonna make sure of it. So now it's your turn to make her happy. Ya gonna come to the weddin'?"

"I'd like to, but Edward..." Suzannah stopped with a sigh.

"Tell him yer gonna support yer sister. He ain't yer boss," Hank said. Edward wasn't much of a man either, but he held his tongue on that point. "Sides, he'll be at work, won't he?" he added with a wink. "I guess ya could just not tell him."

"No, I'll tell him," Suzannah said. "You're right, I should be supporting Myra. I'll be there on Friday."

"Thanks." Hank smiled now. "Ya gonna tell her I stopped by?"

"No." Suzannah shook her head slightly. "You shouldn't have had to come and tell me to want my own sister to be happy."

"Well, I ain't gonna tell her. Let her think ya changed yer mind on yer own."

"Thank you."

Hank nodded and left the house, pulled a cigar out and strolled back down the drive and across town, smoking and smiling to himself. One problem was dealt with and he decided to spend the rest of the morning organising an hotel room for Friday night and another suit for himself to wear. Both were dealt with reasonably quickly and then he sent a telegram to his manager at the Gold Nugget, advising him he would be arriving back in Colorado Springs the following Monday. He couldn't help grinning to himself as he imagined what everyone would think when he returned with a wife.


	53. Chapter 53

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

After Myra finished work, Hank spent the rest of the day with her. Samantha's carer was keeping her for the afternoon to give Myra more time to sort things out for her wedding. First she wanted to choose a dress and Hank paced impatiently outside the store for over an hour until she came out, smugly telling him she had found the perfect thing. After that, they went to a jewellery store to get a wedding ring.

"Are you going to wear a ring too?" teased Myra as they walked towards the store.

"Will if ya want," he said.

"Are you serious?" Myra said in surprise. "You'd wear a ring? I didn't think you liked men wearing jewellery."

"I know what kinda man I am, wearin' a ring that says I'm _your_ man don't make me a sissy," he smirked.

He bought a pair of matching rings; one small and narrow and the other larger and wider but both identical in style. The store assistant put them into a ring box designed especially to hold a pair. Afterwards they went to the Juniper Cafe again for a late lunch and then collected Samantha. Hank saw them home and spent the rest of the day at the guest house.

Myra only had three more days at work and on each day, Hank met her in the afternoon and they picked up Samantha and took her for lunch or out for a buggy ride. On Tuesday, Myra looked much happier than she had before.

"Suzannah's coming to the wedding after all!" she exclaimed as they walked away from the bank. "We talked last night. She said she'd been thinking and felt that she'd been unkind to me by agreeing with Edward. She says it's obvious that I'm happy and she was only concerned because of my past with you."

"Well, that's great news," grinned Hank. "I suppose that stuffy husband of hers ain't comin' though."

"No, but she told him she intends to and that he needn't try persuading her otherwise. She even ordered a carriage to collect us and Samantha from the house and bring us to the church."

"I'm real glad she came 'round," Hank said, doing his best not to look smug.

They spent the rest of the day together and then Hank walked Myra and Samantha back to the house. Myra opened the door and stepped inside, then turned to say goodbye to him. Suzannah appeared behind her in the hallway and gave him a small smile as Myra bent to take off Samantha's coat. He nodded at her in return and she slipped away into the drawing room.

The next two days passed in a similar way and when Myra finished work for the final time on Thursday, she emerged from the bank carrying a huge bouquet of flowers and a basket containing a boxed water jug and bowl which her colleagues had got together to buy for her. Her boss had also promised a glowing reference should she decide to work again in the future.

At last it was Friday. Hank took most of his things over to the St Louis Grand Hotel where they were to spend the night and then passed the rest of the morning at the guest house, pacing impatiently for most of it and chatting to Mrs Claybourne. He took a bath, washed his hair, put on the fine grey suit he had obtained along with a crisp white shirt, red silk tie and finally added the pocket watch Myra had given him. He was ready by twelve-thirty and then paced around some more.

"Don't you have a best man or anything?" Mrs Claybourne asked him at one point.

"No. Ain't nobody 'cept me and Myra and her sister. Plus her daughter's gonna be a flower girl."

"You didn't want your family there? Or friends?"

"Ain't got no family," Hank said. "As for friends - well, if ya can call 'em that, they're all back in Colorado. We're just havin' a quiet weddin'. Neither of us wanted any fuss." He had been a little surprised that Myra hadn't wanted to invite more people and have all the trimmings that usually went with weddings, but she had told him all she was interested in doing was becoming Mrs Lawson and heading back to Colorado Springs.

"Well, at least wear a buttonhole," Mrs Claybourne told him.

"A what?"

"Here." The lady plucked a red rose which matched his tie from the vase on the kitchen table, broke the stem short and tucked it into the buttonhole in his lapel. "There, that's better. Good luck to you and your lady."

At last it was time for Hank to head for the church. He walked there briskly and arrived at ten minutes before two. The Reverend was waiting and indicated that Hank should sit on the front pew while he waited for Myra. His heart began to thump faster and faster as he sat there alone. It suddenly seemed impossible to believe that he was about to get married. He had never considered it, up until Myra married Horace. He'd briefly wished it had been him standing there at the altar with her and then written the idea off, guessing that it wasn't for him. If he couldn't have Myra, he didn't want anybody and any thoughts of a wife and family had been buried.

Now he was back at that point, only this time he did have Myra. In half an hour she would be his wife and his whole life would change. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. At first he had thought his pounding heart and sweating palms were from fear of tying himself to someone for the rest of his life, but now he realised that he wasn't worried about getting married, but that for some reason she might change her mind at the last minute and leave him waiting there alone.

He wiped his hands on his pants legs and chewed his lip, wishing he could smoke a cigar. The church clock showed it was exactly two o'clock and she wasn't there. He began to feel a little sick.

The door opened and he jerked his head around at once. There was Suzannah, wearing a beautiful pink gown with a matching hat. She held Samantha's hand as the little girl climbed carefully up the step into the church. She was dressed in a frilly and lacy white dress with pink flowers stitched on it and carrying a basket full of flower petals.

Hank heaved a sigh of relief and watched as the two began to make their way slowly up the aisle, Suzannah guiding her niece and the child scattering petals as she walked. When they reached the altar, Suzannah picked up Samantha and they sat on the front pew on the left opposite Hank.

The door which was still ajar, now opened wider to admit Myra. She was wearing a stunning cream coloured dress in a simple style with long narrow sleeves and a deep neckline which showed a hint of cleavage. Her hair was pinned up loosely, a pink flower pinned into it and she carried a bouquet of pink and red flowers. She looked beautiful and Hank got to his feet and stared in admiration as she walked towards him. At last she reached his side, passed her flowers to Suzannah and slid her hand into his as they waited for the Reverend to begin the ceremony.

With no one to give Myra away and only the pair of them involved, the service was short. The Reverend began by speaking about their commitment to each other and then proceeded with the vows.

"Do you, Hank, take Myra to be your wife," he began.

"Yes," Hank said firmly.

"Ssshhh," whispered Myra. "He hasn't finished."

"Sorry." Hank smirked and held his tongue.

The Reverend smiled and continued. "To have and to hold from this day forward; for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health; to love and to cherish as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," Hank said after a brief hesitation to make sure the Reverend wasn't going to say anything else. Myra squeezed his hand harder and beamed.

"Do you, Myra, take Hank to be your husband; to have and to hold from this day forward; for better for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health; to love and to cherish as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," Myra replied at once, her voice shaking just a tiny bit. She had tears in her eyes and blinked rapidly in an effort to stop them spilling over.

The Reverend then asked for the ring and Hank drew the box out of his pocket and passed it to the clergyman, who seemed a little surprised that there were a pair.

Hank took the smaller ring from the box when asked and carefully slid it onto Myra's finger, then she did the same with the larger ring, her hands trembling a little. Hank stared at the ring on his finger, surprised that rather than look strange, it seemed right at home there already. He began to grin proudly, barely aware of the Reverend pronouncing them husband and wife.

"You may now kiss the bride."

Those last words penetrated his stunned brain and he drew Myra closer to him, sliding both arms around her as their lips met. She was his _wife_. He wanted to snatch her off her feet and swing her round and round in delight. So many years he had longed for her and finally, she was his, because she wanted to be, not because a contract said she had no choice.

He released her reluctantly now and she took his arm as they walked back down the aisle to the door, Suzannah and Samantha following. The carriage complete with driver that Suzannah had hired to bring the three of them to the church waited outside and they all climbed in. Inside was a bag of Myra's belongings, the remainder of her things to be sent on by Suzannah after they had left for Colorado. Now they rode to the Grand Hotel to drop off Hank, Myra and Samantha and then Suzannah instructed the driver to take her back to the house.

Hank checked them in at the hotel reception, obtained the room key and then picked up Samantha and led the way upstairs to the room. It turned out to be a large suite complete with a drawing room, private bathroom and an enormous bedroom with a four-poster and a smaller cot bed suitable for Samantha in one corner.

They relaxed in the room for a little while and changed out of their wedding clothes, then went down to the dining room for supper. The hotel staff had been advised they were newly married and their waiter for the evening supplied them with the best choices from the menu including food which Samantha would enjoy accompanied by as much wine as they wanted and milk for the little girl. For the first time they were addressed as 'Mr and Mrs Lawson' and both eyed each other and grinned at this.

Eventually Samantha began to nod off on her chair and Hank picked her up again as they returned to their room. Myra put her to bed, then went into the bathroom to freshen up and change into the pink nightgown Hank had given her for Christmas. When she returned, she smelled of the French perfume and Hank didn't waste much time discarding his own clothes and drawing her into bed. They made love slowly and gently, then lay in each other's arms, talking softly.

"Can't believe yer my wife," Hank murmured.

"Me neither."

"Ya happy?"

"More than I've ever been," she whispered.

"Me too." He kissed her softly. "Love ya, Mrs Lawson."

Myra smiled. "I like the sound of that. I love you too."

They were woken early by Samantha, scrambling onto their bed and shaking Myra awake.

"Mama, I'm hungry!" she exclaimed.

Hank opened his eyes slowly as Myra sat up. "We'll get up in a minute," she yawned.

"Why's Uncle Hank sleeping with you?" asked Samantha then.

Hank smirked and bit his lip.

"Because we're married. We're always going to be together now. Remember I told you that we'll be going back to Colorado Springs with him?"

"Yes." Samantha nodded solemnly. "Does that mean I call him Papa now?"

Myra glanced at Hank and he just grinned and raised one eyebrow. Horace wasn't going to think much to his daughter calling Hank 'pa' he thought.

"Do you want to call him Papa?" asked Myra.

"Yes, but what about my other Papa?" Samantha frowned and chewed her lip.

"He's still your Papa too. You'll be seeing him very soon."

"Why don't ya just call me 'Pa'?" suggested Hank. "So ya know which of us yer talkin' about?"

"Alright." Samantha nodded firmly. "Pa." She smiled again now. "Can we have breakfast now?"

"Why don't I get some breakfast sent up to the room?" Hank looked at Myra, who seemed a little lethargic and pale. "Then ya won't have to rush about and get ready."

"Thank you, I'd like that," she said. "I feel a bit drained this morning."

"Must be all the excitement." He glanced at Samantha who was still sitting on the bed and then leaned closer to Myra to whisper. "Ain't got nothin' on."

Myra smiled and slid her legs out of the bed. "Come on, Samantha, let's go in the bathroom and get your face washed ready for breakfast."

As the door closed behind them, Hank sprang out of bed and dragged on his clothes, then went downstairs to order breakfast. He was advised a tray would be sent up within half an hour and he returned to the room quickly, finding Samantha now dressed, but Myra still in her nightgown.

"I don't feel so good," she said. "I don't often drink wine and I had two glasses last night, it's probably that."

"Ya wanna stay in bed a while?" asked Hank. "If ya don't feel up to travellin', we can stop here another night."

"No, it's alright, I'll be fine as soon as I have some coffee," Myra said. "It's a long journey, I'd rather get on with it." She returned to the bathroom now and got dressed, emerging just as the breakfast tray arrived.

Myra sipped coffee and nibbled a piece of bread, but that was all. Hank and Samantha both tucked into bacon, eggs, tomatoes and bread and jam, managing to eat everything the waiter had provided between them. After the meal, they gathered up their belongings and went down to the reception. Hank paid the bill and the hotel manager arranged one of the carriages to take them to the railway station. Myra was feeling better now, sure that the coffee had chased away the lingering effects of the wine and she was now eager to be on the way back to Colorado.

The Denver train was on time and they boarded at ten forty-five, finding an unoccupied carriage which they were lucky enough to keep to themselves until they changed trains. At eleven o'clock, the train pulled out of the station and slowly made its way out of St Louis, taking them towards the start of their new life together.


	54. Chapter 54

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Hank, Myra and Samantha arrived in Colorado Springs on the ten o'clock train from Denver. Few people were on the platform other than Horace, with just one or two others who seemed to be waiting for passengers. Hank picked up the two pieces of luggage and Myra followed him down the corridor to the exit door, gripping Samantha's hand tightly.

Hank jumped down onto the platform and placed the bags at his feet, then reached up to take Samantha. He scooped her off the top step and held her in one arm while he offered his free hand to Myra to assist her down the steps. She stopped suddenly, gripping the safety rail with both hands and closing her eyes briefly.

"I don't feel well," she said. She had looked fairly pale since they changed trains in Denver and had barely eaten anything on the journey, but now she was completely colourless.

"Hell," muttered Hank, turning briefly and lowering Samantha to her feet. "Horace! Over here!"

Horace turned and strode towards them, his face both astonished and delighted as Samantha began to run to him, crying out, "Papa!" at the top of her voice.

"What's goin' on? Is that Myra?" he asked now.

Hank ignored him and turned back, just in time to catch Myra as she fainted, her feet slipping from the step and pitching her into his arms.

"She'll be fine," he said to Horace, trying to convince himself of that. "I'll take her to Michaela."

"I'll put yer bags in the telegraph office," Horace said. "Samantha can stay with me."

Hank nodded and began to head quickly for the clinic, hoping that Michaela would be there. He banged loudly on the door with his foot and it was opened a second later by Sully. Michaela waited a few paces behind him.

"It's Myra," Hank said, barging past Sully into the clinic. "She fainted gettin' off the train." He lowered her carefully onto the examination table now. "She ain't been so good for a coupla days."

Michaela's eyes widened as she looked down at Myra. "She must be visiting Horace," she said under her breath. "Hank, will you go outside, please? I need to examine her."

"I'm stayin'," Hank said. "She ain't visitin' Horace, she's with me."

Both Michaela and Sully looked at him in surprise, but neither questioned him for the moment.

"I still need you to go outside and give her some privacy," Michaela repeated.

"Come on," Sully added, beginning to propel Hank towards the door.

"Take yer hands off me!" growled Hank suddenly, shoving Sully away from him. "I'm stayin'! She's my _wife_!"

Michaela looked up from Myra again, her eyes wide. Sully's jaw dropped.

"We got married Friday," added Hank, holding up his left hand to show them his ring and pushing the door closed with his foot.

"You got _married_?" echoed Sully.

"Yeah. So what? You did," Hank said, grinning briefly. Then he looked over at Michaela. "Ya gonna see to her, then?"

"I'm sorry, Hank, it was a bit of a surprise," Michaela said. "I didn't even know you and Myra had seen each other."

"Thought ya knew about Christmas," said Hank. "She was lookin' after me when I'd been shot."

"Well, then, congratulations," Michaela said, smiling briefly before she turned her attention back to Myra. She was just opening her eyes and seemed puzzled as to her location.

"Dr Mike?" she said weakly. "Where's Hank?"

"I'm here." He hurried to her side at once and grasped her hand, earning further surprised glances from Michaela and Sully. Sully then backed towards the door.

"Guess I'll leave ya to it," he said and let himself out.

"What happened?" asked Myra now. "Where's Samantha?"

"It seems you fainted," Michaela said.

"Horace has got her," Hank added.

"I've been feeling a bit poorly for a few days," Myra said. "I thought it was the wine."

"I hear congratulations are in order," said Michaela as she took Myra's pulse.

"Thanks. I bet you're surprised," said Myra, smiling now.

"You could say that. As I said to Hank, I didn't realise you'd seen much of each other."

"I suppose we didn't need to, we just did a lot of thinking," Myra said.

"Well, I'm glad for you," Michaela said, touching her face now. "You don't seem to have a fever. Have you been eating properly?"

"Yes, fine until we left St Louis."

"Umm...there are one or two others things I should ask you," Michaela said, glancing awkwardly at Hank now.

"Don't worry about him," Myra said. "I doubt you could embarrass him."

Hank grinned.

"I was thinking more of you," Michaela said, although her face betrayed her own discomfort.

"Well, don't worry about me either. Can I sit up?"

"Of course, if the faintness has passed."

Myra sat up slowly, helped by Hank, and slid her legs off the side of the table.

"So what did you want to ask me?" she prompted.

"When was your last monthly?" Michaela asked, her face averted.

"You think I'm pregnant?" gasped Myra.

"It's a possibility."

Hank squeezed Myra's hand tighter and grinned wider. Her face was anxious, but she relaxed as Hank continued smiling at her.

"It was...I can't remember. I haven't had one this year," Myra said. "I think it was a couple of weeks before Christmas."

"Then I'd say there's a good chance you're in the early stages of pregnancy," Michaela said. "Lie back again please, so I can examine your abdomen."

A few minutes later, Michaela confirmed that Myra appeared to be a little under two months pregnant and she sat up again, straightening her clothes.

"It must have happened at Christmas," she said, looking up at Hank.

"I'm gonna be a pa again?" Hank beamed from ear to ear. "You are pleased...?" he added.

"Of course I'm pleased." Myra reached out to hug him. "I always wanted a little brother or sister for Samantha."

"Can we go?" Hank asked Michaela.

She nodded. "Just try to get plenty of rest and you must start eating again, little and often, even if you feel unwell. Congratulations, again," she said with a smile.

Hank helped Myra down from the table and held her hand tightly as they slowly left the clinic. Sully was sitting outside on the bench and he got to his feet now, nodded at them and went back inside.

"We should probably pick up Samantha," Myra said.

"I'll get her later when I fetch the bags," said Hank. "Let's go home first. You oughta put yer feet up."

"Alright. I do feel a bit weak."

They began to walk slowly across to the Gold Nugget, but were stopped outside by a number of people, Loren and Jake being the first to reach them.

"Myra?" Loren said, astonished at the sight of her holding onto Hank and looking happy about it.

"Hello, Loren. Jake," she said with a smile.

"What're you doin' back?" Jake asked.

"I've come home," said Myra.

"Ain't considerin' work for him again, are ya?" Loren said with a frown, glancing at Hank.

"I suppose I am, if you count making his supper once in a while," Myra giggled.

"Only once in a while? Thought I'd be entitled to more than that now," teased Hank.

Loren gaped wider as he looked from one to the other.

"Come on, Hank, what ya been up to?" Jake prompted.

"Why don't I just introduce ya proper?" smirked Hank. "I want ya to meet Myra Lawson - my wife."

"Wife?" echoed Jake. "Ya serious?"

"Yeah, tied the knot on Friday," Hank said, continuing to grin. "Asked her at Christmas."

"Why'd ya keep it a secret?" asked Loren.

Hank shrugged. "Ain't never been one to tell folks my business, ya know that, Loren."

"But this deserves a celebration!" the old man exclaimed. "Ya can't get married and not at least have a toast."

"Yeah, least ya can do is let us toast ya on the house," put in Jake.

"Later." Hank waved them away now. "Myra needs to rest a while."

"I must say, ya look a bit pale," Loren observed. "Been poorly, have ya?"

"A little," Myra nodded.

"She's pregnant!" blurted out Hank, unable to contain himself on that point. Much as he usually preferred to keep his business to himself, at that moment he felt like climbing up on the roof of the Gold Nugget and bellowing out to the whole town that he was going to be a father. He was going to make sure he did a good job of it this time too.

"Pregnant?" echoed Jake. "Ya mean we gotta congratulate ya twice?"

Hank grinned. "Forget drinks on the house, you should be buyin' 'em for us. I'll take a couple of yer best cigars an' all, Loren." He began to lead Myra to the door of the hotel now, but paused as Jake shouted after him.

"Ya know, Hank, that's awful fast work if ya just got married three days ago!"

Hank snorted but said nothing in reply. He wouldn't be surprised if Loren went running over to the Gazette office now to ask Dorothy to put an announcement in the next edition. However, he suddenly wondered if Myra would have preferred to let the townsfolk think they had got married first and the baby was just early when it was born.

"Sorry," he said. "Couldn't keep that one to myself."

"It's alright. I'm dying to tell everyone too," she smiled.

"Hey, just promise me one thing," Hank said suddenly. "That ya won't start sleep-walkin' and kissin' fellas in the bar."

Myra giggled. "I'll try not to."

Hank now spent a few minutes introducing her to his manager and the latest bunch of girls, none of whom she knew. Suzie appeared more than a little uncomfortable and looked down at her feet until they left the room.

Hank took Myra upstairs to the room he used with its own private bathroom and suggested she rest for a while until he had fetched her things from the telegraph office. She sat down on the bed gratefully and leaned back against the pillows.

"Who's that blonde girl?" she asked suddenly. "The one that looked as if she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her."

"Suzie," Hank said with a slight grimace.

"Do you two have history?" Myra did her best to sound casual, but her eyes looked a tiny bit hurt.

"No," Hank said honestly. "No more than any of them. Ain't been with none of them since before ya wrote askin' me to visit."

Myra smiled again. "She just looked a little...I don't know...upset or something."

"Right after I got back here last time she crept in my room," Hank admitted. "I was missin' ya..."

Myra's face fell at this point.

"Hey, I ain't finished. I threw her half across the room, told her to get out. Hurt her pride more than anythin' else. Didn't tell her why neither, so I guess she just realised it was 'cause I only wanted you."

Myra smiled again now. "I hope you're still saying that in a year," she said. "Or ten years."

"I'll be sayin' it fifty years," Hank grinned, bending to give her a kiss. "Assumin' I'm still alive!" He took his coat off now and hung it up on the peg on the back of the door. "This all happened so quick, I never thought about how much room we were gonna need."

"This is fine, it's a big room," Myra said.

"Not for three, it ain't, or four soon enough. Samantha should have her own room anyhow, she's gettin' big enough. 'Sides, you oughta have a proper house. I'm gonna look around, see what there is to rent. I don't need to be livin' here, the manager stays at night."

"You've always lived here," said Myra.

"Don't mean I wanna stay here. I'll rent somewhere temporarily and look at gettin' a house built just for us later."

"I have to admit, I'd love to have my own house," Myra told him. "Suzannah's was lovely, but so cold, the children were almost afraid to touch anything."

"Ours ain't gonna be like that," Hank said with a grin. "They sure ain't gonna get in trouble for talkin' at supper. Reminded me of when I was a kid. How ya feelin' now?"

"Much better, just tired. I think I'll stay here for a while if you don't mind."

"'Course I don't mind. I'll go pick up our bags. Ya want me to tell Horace to keep Samantha for a bit? Let ya rest?"

Myra nodded. He left her there lying on the bed and went out. By the time he reached the telegraph office, four different people had stopped him to offer congratulations on his marriage and expected baby and he guessed Loren and Jake must be telling everyone they came across. The only one who didn't know anything appeared to be Horace, who was alone in his office when Hank arrived, except for Samantha who was playing on the floor with a carved horse and wagon which had been one of her Christmas presents.

"How's Myra?" he asked when Hank walked in.

"Fine. Just fainted, is all."

Samantha looked up from her game at Hank's voice and beamed. "Hey, Pa!" she exclaimed.

Horace frowned slightly, but said nothing. "Did Dr Mike have any idea of what caused it?" he asked.

"Yeah she's..." Hank hesitated briefly. The last thing he wanted at that moment was an argument with anyone, least of all Horace. "...pregnant," he added eventually.

"Oh!" Horace's eyebrows rose and then lowered as he eyed Hank's left hand resting on the counter. "Ya got married, then?"

"Yeah. Friday."

"I hope ya make her happy," Horace said.

"I intend to."

The telegraph operator nodded. "Well, then. I guess ya'll be wantin' yer bags."

"Thanks."

Horace picked up the two bags from a corner of the office and passed them over the counter.

"Don't look like much," he commented.

"Myra's sister's sendin' the rest of her things in the next day or two," Hank said. "Just holler when they arrive and I'll come get them."

"Sure. Myra want ya to take Samantha back now too?" Horace asked.

"No, she thought ya might wanna watch her for a while longer, she's restin'."

"How about I keep her here overnight, then?" Horace turned to look at Samantha. "Honey, how'd ya like to stay the night with Papa?"

"Yeah!" agreed Samantha enthusiastically. "But need wabbit!"

Horace glanced back at Hank and frowned.

"Pink rabbit," Hank said with a grin. "She won't sleep without it." He unfastened Myra's bag and delved into it, finding the rabbit stuffed into a corner. He held it out over the counter and Samantha got up and grabbed it immediately.

"Fanks, Pa!"

Hank grinned. "I'll leave ya to it." He picked up the two bags and returned to the Gold Nugget. Myra was sleeping when he looked in on her, so he crept out again and left her in peace, going back to the bar to spend a few hours catching up on the gossip and fielding the endless questions from the regulars who had flocked in once they heard his news.


	55. Chapter 55

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

The next morning Hank started looking around for a house to rent immediately. Meanwhile Myra, who was feeling perfectly well, went to collect Samantha and arranged with Horace that their daughter would stay with him every second weekend.

Hank returned in the middle of the day to take the two of them to Grace's for lunch and already had good news. A small house on the edge of town was available for rent. The owners planned to travel south to care for the wife's ailing mother, but expected to return within six months to a year so wanted to keep the house to come back to. They were in the process of packing and advised Hank could have the house by the end of the week. They were leaving their furniture and taking only the items they would need for the journey in addition to their clothes and children's toys.

"It's got two bedrooms, a big lounge room, kitchen with a table in there, corral for the horses," Hank recited over platefuls of Grace's meatloaf. "I paid them six months' rent to be goin' on with."

"That's wonderful," Myra said. "I can't believe you found a place so quickly."

"Just luck really. Ain't nothin' else available, but they're about ready to go. We should be in there at the weekend," Hank said.

The following day Myra and Samantha's belongings arrived from St Louis in two large chests and Hank collected them from the station in his wagon. Then on Friday everything was taken to the new house and they spent their first night there, Samantha loving her new large room with its wallpaper featuring various animals. The room had been the owners' children's room and also included two small beds, a closet behind a curtain with pegs positioned low for small people to reach and a large box for keeping toys in. Samantha wanted to arrange her own things in it with the pink rabbit getting pride of place on the pillow of the bed beneath the window.

Myra had been intending to look for work immediately on her arrival in Colorado Springs, but now that she was pregnant she decided not to until after the baby was born, then see how she felt. She had discovered Preston Lodge II had taken over the running of the bank and installed a temporary manager and she hoped to apply for that position in the future, should it become available.

The first few weeks in the new house were wonderful. Hank and Myra quickly settled into a routine where she would make him lunch before he went to the Gold Nugget in the middle of the afternoon and stay until the late evening, then return a little before Myra went to bed. Myra began to suffer badly from morning sickness and went to Michaela for another check up, worried something may be wrong as she hadn't suffered nearly so much with Samantha. However, Michaela told her everything was going well and that the sickness should pass after the third month.

Michaela was right and on the last Saturday in March, Myra woke feeling fine and from then on, began eating like a horse, worrying that she would end up the size of Hank's favourite, Hurricane. He began to tease her as she ate as much as him, suggesting he move into the spare bed in Samantha's room as there soon wouldn't be room for him in the same one as Myra.

By now everyone in town had got used to the fact that Myra was back and married to Hank, although he regularly had his leg pulled in the Gold Nugget for 'turning soft' and becoming a regular husband and father like everyone else, when it had always seemed like he never would.

It was the fourth day in April when the Lawsons' new-found happiness was threatened. Hank and Myra walked from the house to the centre of town together, Samantha trotting along beside Myra. It was Friday afternoon and Horace's turn to have Samantha for the weekend so they called in at the telegraph office first to drop her off, along with a small bag of her belongings. Myra then went to the clinic for a check up and Hank headed over to the Gold Nugget. It had been doing better lately, with more of the hotel rooms being made use of. He leaned on the bar and chatted to the manager for a little while, smoking a cigar and helping himself to a large whiskey.

Perhaps half an hour later, a commotion at Loren's store drew Hank out of the hotel and a number of other people out of various buildings to see what was going on. Jake appeared from the barber's shop and began to cross towards the store.

"What's goin' on?" Hank ran across to him, his hand on the gun in its holster where it rested against his hip.

"Dunno. Heard a crash and shoutin'," Jake said.

Hank charged ahead, stopping just outside Loren's door. Two unfamiliar men were in the store, both wearing hats pulled well down and scarves around their faces. One held a gun and the other was emptying Loren's cash box while he stood back against the display shelves, hands up. A few feet inside the door were Myra and Dorothy, frozen in place, a bolt of fabric in Dorothy's hands. Hank's guts clenched as he glanced at Myra, even more anxious about her than he had been during the bank robbery, now that she was pregnant.

He was still out of sight of the two men, but now he stepped into the doorway, gun raised, ordering the men to stand still. The one with the gun turned on Hank, but quickly lowered his own weapon, realising Hank had the upper hand. Loren took the opportunity to grab his shotgun from beneath the counter and the armed man handed over his gun, accepting defeat quickly. The one with the cashbox, noticing the attention of both Hank and Loren was on his partner, dropped the money and made for the door, dodging around the counter and shoving Dorothy and Myra roughly out of the way as he made a run for it.

Both women screamed, stumbling against the stack of fabrics, Dorothy grabbing at Myra to try to keep her on her feet.

"Myra!" Hank cried in a panic, his attention switching from the man in front of him to his wife.

"I'm alright," she gasped, straightening up again. Hank turned to go after the escaping man, who had found his route out of the store blocked by Jake and appeared undecided as to whether to give up or fight. Hank now grabbed him by the back of his jacket, spun him around and laid into him with both fists, his fear of Myra being hurt turning into fury. In less than a minute the man crouched on the ground, gasping for breath, spitting blood, his nose pouring with it, begging for mercy.

"Hank, stop!" Jake exclaimed. "Yer gonna kill him!"

"'S'what he deserves!" growled Hank, delivering a hefty kick to the man's ribs.

"Hank, that'll do!" Daniel now burst into the store, having heard the commotion. "I'll take it from here." Temporarily ignoring the injured man, he handcuffed the second whom Loren was still holding in the corner with his shotgun. A moment later both men were hustled out of the store in the direction of the jail.

"Myra!" Hank turned back towards her now. "Are ya alright?"

She nodded, her face pale, leaning against him as he slid an arm around her.

"Loren, ya can put the gun down now," Jake said. "Y'alright, old man?"

"I would be if it wasn't for these darned robbers; we're gettin' more and more of them the bigger this town gets," grumbled Loren, putting the shotgun away. "Are you alright, Dorothy?"

"Yes, thank you, Loren." Dorothy picked up the bolt of fabric which she had dropped on the floor and brushed it down.

"I'll take ya home," Hank said, steering Myra towards the door.

She held on tight to his arm as they walked slowly back to the house. She was pale and shaky and Hank repeatedly asked her how she was feeling until he had her resting on the sofa with her feet up and a quilt tucked around her.

"I'm fine, Hank, really, don't worry," she said, smiling at last.

"I dunno what I'd do if anythin' happened to ya, or the kid," he said. "Maybe I oughta get Michaela to look at ya again."

"You don't need to, we're both alright," protested Myra.

Hank left it at that, but he didn't go the Gold Nugget that day, hanging around the house instead, fussing around Myra until he could tell he was irritating her, but he couldn't help it. Then a couple of hours later when she complained of feeling unwell, he was glad he had ignored her protests and not left her alone.

"What's wrong?" he demanded at once.

"I just feel a bit sick, that's all."

"Well, I'm gonna get Michaela, I shoulda done before," Hank said, heading for the door at once. He stepped out into the street and was relieved to see Brian Cooper and one of his friends only yards away, heading into the centre of town.

"Hey! Brian!" Hank shouted.

Brian halted and looking at him anxiously. His friend made himself scarce and Brian approached slowly.

"Don't look like that, I won't bite," Hank scowled.

"Sorry. What can I do for ya?" asked Brian.

"Fetch yer ma, tell her Myra's feelin' sick," said Hank. "Can ya hurry?"

"Sure, I'll get her." Brian sprinted off in the direction of the clinic and Hank returned to Myra, leaving the door open.

Myra looked very pale and sickly again and was lying back against the cushions, her face damp with sweat. Hank grabbed a cloth, squeezed it out in cold water and rested it on her forehead. It was only minutes before there was a tap on the door.

"It's Michaela," Michaela's voice called out.

"Come in!" Hank shouted, moving out of the way as Michaela came to Myra's side. "Loren's store was gettin' robbed earlier," he said. "Myra was in there and she got pushed. Could that have made her ill?"

"Did you fall?" Michaela asked Myra.

"No. Dorothy caught me."

"Any pain?"

"No. I just feel sick and sort of strange." Myra closed her eyes. "Will the baby be alright?"

"I hope so. I'm going to examine you. Hank, will you get me a bowl of water please, and a towel?"

"Sure." He brought the required items quickly and then paced about as Michaela undertook the examination. The towel was light blue and when Michaela suddenly moved it aside he noticed there was blood on it. His heart froze and seemed to stop beating as he stared at it in horror.

"Dr Mike?" Myra said in a small voice.

"You've had a little bleeding, Myra," Michaela said. "It's already stopping, so I'm hopeful it's not serious. Light bleeding is often experienced..."

"Yer _hopeful_?" interrupted Hank. "So it could be serious, only ya don't know!"

"As I said, light bleeding is often experienced in the first few months, but it doesn't necessarily mean anything is wrong, especially since it's stopped so quickly. You must get plenty of rest, Myra."

"I seem to have been doing nothing but rest, Dr Mike," Myra sighed. "Hank and Samantha between them will hardly let me do a thing."

"Well, that's good," Michaela smiled. "How are you feeling now?"

"A bit better. Not sick any more."

Michaela stayed a little longer, but there appeared to be no further need for her and eventually she returned to the clinic. Hank stayed at the house for the rest of the afternoon and Myra slept a while. When she woke, she sat up slowly, yawning.

"How ya feelin'?" Hank asked at once.

"Alright, I think." She gave him a faint smile and rose slowly to her feet. Then suddenly she doubled over with a gasp, clutching her stomach, her face turning white again. "Oh, I think something's wrong!" she said through clenched teeth.

"I'm takin' ya to the clinic," Hank said at once and gathered her into his arms, hoping Michaela would still be there. He hurried along the street, carrying Myra as if she weighed no more than a bag of sugar, finding Michaela outside just about to mount her horse Flash. She returned to the clinic door and opened it quickly as she saw Hank approaching. He lowered Myra onto the examination table and took a step back.

"Oh, Dr Mike, something's wrong, it really hurts," Myra wailed, tears spilling down her cheeks now.

Hank returned to the door, realising it was still open and slammed it closed, then stood in front of it as Michaela examined Myra and confirmed that she was bleeding heavily and it was certain now that she had miscarried. Too shocked to speak, Hank just stared as Michaela pulled a curtain partition around Myra and helped her into a nightgown.

"Hank, will you carry Myra upstairs to one of the recovery rooms?" Michaela asked then. "I'd like her to stay at least overnight."

The words didn't register in Hank's numbed brain and he continued to just stand and stare.

"_Hank_!" Michaela exclaimed.

"Yeah." Pulling himself together, he carefully picked Myra up again and took her upstairs. She seemed as numb as he felt, not speaking, not crying, just lying there in his arms, her face white and her eyes half closed, limp as a pile of rags. He left Michaela to settle her in bed and went back downstairs.

Now he remembered Lillian being shot, Clarice dying, Myra leaving to marry Horace - all of the losses he had suffered in the past which he had tried to drown out with whiskey, or beat out of himself by fighting with anyone who stepped into his path. Now Myra's baby - his baby - was gone and he had no idea how to feel, how to deal with the pain that suddenly engulfed him. All he knew was that he would be no help to Myra. She needed comfort, but he didn't know how he would give it when he felt crushed and empty, sick and angry and helpless all at once.

Upstairs he heard Myra begin to cry and the sound cut into him almost as much as the loss. At least she had Michaela right now; all he had was his own thoughts and a bottle, as soon as he could get across to the bar. He opened the door, stepped outside and closed it after him. The Gold Nugget was noisy with Friday evening customers drinking and laughing, sounding like they didn't have a care in the world. The last thing Hank wanted was to face them and he headed for home instead, knowing he would find a couple of whiskey bottles in the kitchen cupboard. If only he could blot it out for a little while, then he would get himself together and deal with it.

A couple of hours later, halfway down the second bottle, Hank slumped down full length onto the sofa, the room spinning around him. His last conscious thought was that once again he was running away like a coward, just as he always did when something hurt too much to contemplate.


	56. Chapter 56

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Hank crawled off the sofa early the next morning, his head hammering and his stomach churning. Half a bottle of whiskey still stood on the floor close by and he picked it up and took a couple of gulps to wash away the unpleasant taste in his mouth, then lit a cigar. After only a brief moment he was hit by the memory of what had happened the previous afternoon and he was instantly filled with guilt that he had left Myra at the clinic alone. Michaela had been with her, but he should have been there himself. He had been so wrapped up in own pain, he hadn't been able to offer her anything and he felt sick with himself. Even after everything that had happened to him over the years, his determination to get away from his past, he was still exactly what his father had said when he was a child - a failure. Myra was better off without him.

A fist hammered on the door now, startling him and making him knock over the bottle where it emptied the remainder of its contents onto the rug by his feet. He cursed under his breath and stamped over to the door, jerking it open suddenly. Sully stood on the porch, his face stiff.

"What're ya doin' here, Hank?" he asked. "Ya should be with yer wife."

"Who're you to tell me anythin'?" grunted Hank.

"I'm tryin' to help," said Sully.

"Well, don't bother." Hank began to close the door, but Sully's foot blocked it. Hank's temper immediately began to rise.

"Runnin' away from it ain't gonna help either of ya," Sully said. He was as good at sticking his nose in other people's business as his wife and needled Hank with his comment.

"Go to hell!" growled Hank.

"Just listen to me, will ya?"

"Leave me alone!" Hank charged towards him now, fists clenched. "Ya know nothin' about it, Indian-lovin' son-of-a-...!" He collided with Sully bodily and the pair staggered back, crashing through the railing surrounding the porch and landing in a heap in the dirt. Hank scrambled to his feet, fists clenched and flew at Sully again the minute he was back on his feet.

"_Hank!"_ Sully blocked the punch and swept Hank's legs out from under him. Hank fell to the ground on his back, winded, finding himself pinned there with Sully's knee on his shoulder. As if the man wasn't irritating enough, he was better at fighting too.

"Get off me!" he panted.

"Well, then, settle down!" Sully shifted back a little and sat on the ground. Hank pulled himself up slowly, but stayed sitting and actually listened as Sully began to talk, much as he hated to do it. He wanted to wipe what now seemed like a smug look off the man's face, but in truth he didn't have it in him and he knew Sully would get the better of him.

"Ya think I know nothin' about it? Just listen a minute. Ya probably forgot Loren's daughter - my wife - died in childbirth a few years back and my daughter with her. My baby daughter who didn't even get to take one breath of air. And then Michaela and me lost our baby just last year. So, yeah, I know plenty about how it feels to lose a child, even one who ain't been born yet. Runnin' away, drinkin' and fightin' ain't gonna make ya feel better and it sure ain't gonna help Myra. Ya need each other."

"She don't need me, she got her women friends," grunted Hank uncertainly. "What use am I to her?"

"She does need you. And you need her. It was your baby just as much as hers and no amount of friends is gonna make her feel better if you ain't there. Tell her what ya feel or if ya can't talk, just be with her. I made the mistake of runnin' away when Michaela told me she lost our baby. She went through it on her own and told me weeks later, but I still ran away, tried not to deal with it. Let me tell ya, it don't help, it makes it twice as hard. Ya gotta face it and help each other get through it. Whatever yer feelin', I can tell ya it's as least twice as bad for Myra."

"I ain't much good dealin' with stuff like this," Hank confessed, wondering what on earth was making him tell Sully anything. Maybe because Sully was probably the only man in town who would understand what he said. "Everybody I ever cared anythin' for either died or left me."

"Well, Myra ain't dead. I'm guessin' she loves ya, since she's got yer ring on her finger and I don't think she's the kinda person to leave unless she ain't got a choice."

Hank sighed heavily. Myra had left before, but only because of the way he'd treated her. If he'd got his stupid head together and told her how he felt when she got back from her sister's wedding, she probably wouldn't have gone.

"How'd ya get through somethin' like this?" he asked.

"Ya face it. Together. Talk, cry, hold onto each other. Me and Michaela...we planted a tree for our baby. Accept it. It hurts, but ya'll come out the other side." Sully got to his feet now and looked down at Hank sympathetically. "Now go see Myra," he said.

Hank rose slowly, considering what Sully had said. He knew he was right, much as it galled him to admit it. He'd always run away from painful situations and he knew all too well drinking and breaking things didn't help. He liked to think he was tough, that he could handle himself in a fight, beat up the strongest man, disarm a gunman... but he wasn't so tough if he couldn't comfort his wife over this tragedy and in return, gain comfort from her.

"Thanks," he said, barely above a whisper.

Sully just nodded, then turned and walked away.

Hank went back into the house, quickly stripped off his clothes, washed up and dressed again in fresh garments. Fifteen minutes later he left again, ruefully eyeing the broken railing on the porch and thinking he was going to have to fix it or the owners would charge him for it when they came back.

Michaela opened the clinic door when he knocked.

"Good morning, Hank," she said. "Go on up, Myra's awake."

Hank nodded and went upstairs without a word, filled with remorse and pain and fear and not having a clue what he would say to her when he saw her. He certainly wouldn't blame her if she told him to go away. He tapped quietly on the door and then pushed it open when there was no sound from within.

Myra was sitting up in the bed, wearing a prim high-necked, long-sleeved nightgown, her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them, tears pouring down her face. She looked like a little lost girl and seeing her, Hank only felt more anguish. She raised her eyes slowly, but didn't speak.

Hank closed the door quietly, giving himself a couple of extra seconds to decide what to say or do. Apologise? Grovel? Tell her everything was going to be alright? In the end he said nothing. He hurried to the bed, sank onto the mattress, drew her into his arms and cried with her. Neither of them spoke for what seemed a very long time, they simply held each other and wept for their lost child. Eventually they drew apart a little, but still held each other.

"I'm sorry," Hank whispered. "I shoulda been here. Like always I had to go runnin' away like a coward."

"It's alright," Myra said softly.

"No, it ain't. Sully had to come and talk some sense into me. Can ya believe I listened to anythin' _he_ had to say?"

"I suppose he knows how it feels."

"Yeah. Lost; empty; helpless," Hank said.

Myra nodded, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "I feel like my heart's breakin'," she said.

"I guess we just gotta keep goin' till it gets better," Hank said. "How're ya feelin'? I mean physically."

"Alright, just real tired. Pain's gone," Myra told him. "Dr Mike said I should just sleep until I feel better."

"Can ya go home yet?"

"Later today."

"Why don't ya get some more sleep then?" suggested Hank, lowering her back against the pillows. "I'll stay, if ya want."

He pulled his boots off now and lay down beside her on the narrow bed, thinking he would just stay there until she fell asleep and then get up and sit in the chair nearby. He rested his arm around her and stared at the door, feeling the agony of the loss, but at the same time realising that sharing it with Myra lessened the pain marginally. He closed his eyes, deciding the bed was preferable to the chair after all.

A tap on the door disturbed them some time later and Hank realised he must have fallen asleep. It was dusk and Myra was still sleeping in his arms.

"I'm sorry, I've disturbed you," Michaela said from the doorway.

"S'alright." Hank drew away from Myra and sat up slowly. "What day is it?"

"Still Saturday."

"Didn't mean to fall asleep," he muttered.

"It doesn't matter. I'll leave you to it." Michaela backed out of the door again and closed it.

Myra opened her eyes now and shifted slightly, looking up at Hank. He lowered himself back down onto one elbow.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Dunno. 'Bout seven."

"I slept all day?"

"Yeah, we both did. How ya feelin'?"

"Sad."

"Me too."

Myra raised her hand to touch his face suddenly, stroking her fingers over his beard.

"I love you," she said softly.

"I love you too." He leaned forward to kiss her. "Ya wanna go home?"

"Yes."

"I'll go back and get one of yer frocks," he said. "Won't be long."

Hank hurried downstairs, spoke briefly to Michaela and then set off back to the house. When he arrived, he discovered the broken railing outside the door repaired and looking better than it had before he and Sully had fallen through it. Sully had obviously fixed it and Hank's eyebrows rose now as he went in to look for a dress for Myra. He and Sully had never got on and often he'd gone out of his way to make things difficult for Michaela's husband; and yet the man had offered advice and comfort and now fixed the railing which Hank himself had been responsible for breaking. He guessed some people just didn't have a mean bone in their bodies - Myra was another like that.

Hank grabbed a dark blue frock from Myra's closet now, folded it and headed back to the clinic. Loren stepped out of his store and called out to him as he passed. He hesitated for a moment, but then just nodded and continued. The last thing he wanted right now was to have people asking him what happened or saying they were sorry.

Michaela was still working at her desk in the clinic when he knocked and slowly opened the door. She got up at once.

"Ya don't have to wait if ya got things to do," Hank said. "I'm just gonna help Myra put this on and take her home." He indicated the dress.

"It's alright, Sully's coming back to meet me," Michaela told him. "I'm glad you and Myra are going to be able to help each other through this."

"Yeah." Hank nodded. "Hey, tell Sully thanks for me, will ya?"

"Of course. What for?"

"He'll know." Hank left her and went upstairs. Myra was already up, having heard him arrive. Now she pulled off the nightgown which was too big for her and he helped her put the dress on. They left the clinic a few minutes later and walked home slowly. Hank waited until Myra was settled comfortably on the couch and then went out briefly to Grace's to collect some food even though neither of them felt like eating.

"I heard yer news, Hank, I'm so sorry," Grace said quietly.

Hank just nodded and Grace handed him a basket.

"I put some of Myra's favourites in here."

"Thanks." Hank put a hand into his pocket to find some money.

"Oh, don't worry 'bout that, it's on the house," Grace said. "Tell Myra I'm thinkin' of her."

"Sure." Hank took the basket of food and returned to the house. Both of them nibbled half-heartedly at some of the fried chicken and had a glass of cider. Myra went to bed early and rather than stay up drinking, which was tempted to do, Hank joined her. The first day was over; now they just had to figure out a way to get through the next one and the next, until the pain started to go away.


	57. Chapter 57

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

19 APRIL 1875 - HANK'S 40TH BIRTHDAY

It was two years since Myra had lost her baby and it had taken almost a year of that time for either of them to be ready to think about trying again. Only two months after her miscarriage, Myra had taken the job of manager at the bank despite Hank's protests that she ought to give herself more time, but the responsibility of running the establishment gave her a new direction and helped her to cope.

Hank raised the profile of the Gold Nugget, organising poker games in the saloon and advertising the hotel in newspapers further afield than the Gazette. The Denver Herald and the St Louis Post carried advertisements regularly and travellers and businessmen alike often filled the rooms to break their journey south on the train.

Hank received a wire just before Christmas 1873 from the owners of the house advising they would be coming back a couple of months into the New Year. After the loss of the baby he had not thought any more about having a house built and now he roped in Sully and Robert E to draw up plans for a four-bedroom house while he attended an auction in Denver for some land on the outskirts of town. He returned with the deeds in his pocket and immediately instructed the building of the house. Sully and Robert E ran the project and Hank employed an additional six workers to ensure the house was ready to move into before the owners of the rented one returned.

Hank, Myra and Samantha moved into the new house in March 1874 and at the end of the summer, Myra discovered that she was pregnant again. She spent a week arguing with Hank about continuing to work at the bank and in the end gave a month's notice, agreeing to spend more time resting. Ever since, Hank had treated her like a valuable piece of china, constantly worrying that something would happen to her.

However, now it was his fortieth birthday and he was about to receive the best birthday present he could have wished for. He paced outside the clinic, accompanied by Sully, Loren, Jake, Robert E and Grace and several others, while Myra's screams from within as Michaela and Dorothy assisted in her labour made Hank's stomach tie itself in knots. He smoked one cigar after another, restraining himself from running to the Gold Nugget for a bottle with difficulty.

"How much longer's it gonna be?" he groaned to anyone who was listening.

"It's only been four hours, Hank, ya know how long she was with Samantha," Sully said.

"Yeah, thanks, Sully," growled Hank, remembering Myra had been in labour for approaching thirty-five hours.

He glanced at his pocket watch now and realised school had just finished. Samantha had started her first term there in January, despite not quite being five years old and she already loved it. Now there was no one to collect her. However, just moments later Teresa could be seen walking towards town holding Samantha's hand and seeing the crowd outside the clinic, she led the little girl towards them.

"Sorry, I forgot to come get her," Hank said. "Myra's in labour."

A deafening scream from inside the building emphasised this.

"Would you like for me to keep Samantha with me?" offered Teresa.

"Could ya take her to Horace?" Hank asked.

"Of course."

"I'll come with ya," Jake said at once.

"Where's Mama?" asked Samantha suddenly, tugging at Hank's arm before Teresa led her away. "Pa?"

"She's havin' yer baby brother. Or sister," Hank said, forcing himself to smile. "Don't worry, she'll be fine. Mrs Slicker's gonna take ya to stay with yer Papa till afterwards, alright?"

"Sure," Samantha smiled. "See ya later, Pa." She skipped off with Teresa and Jake and luckily was out of earshot by the time the next scream came from the clinic. This last one was much more prolonged and then there was silence. Hank immediately charged up onto the porch and made for the door.

"Woah, hold it!" Sully stepped into his path and propelled him back a couple of steps. "Ya can't just barge in."

Hank began to snarl a response, but then swallowed it as the door opened to reveal Dorothy, drying her hands on a towel, a smile on her face.

"It's a boy," she said.

Hank's heart lurched and he grabbed Dorothy's arm suddenly.

"He's alright? They're both alright?" he asked.

"They're both fine. Michaela's just tidyin' Myra up, give them a couple of minutes, then ya can go in. Myra had a much easier time than before, over almost before it started. That little fella was very keen to make his appearance."

Hank began to grin now and let go of Dorothy as Sully, Loren and Robert E all began to offer congratulations and their hands for him to shake. Ten minutes later, he went into the clinic and upstairs to find Myra propped against some pillows, wearing one of those awful prim nightgowns Michaela kept in the cupboard and cradling the baby, wrapped in a fluffy towel, in her arms. She looked amazingly serene and relaxed and the baby was silent, a tuft of blond hair visible where the towel had slipped back from his face and his wide blue eyes staring up at her.

Hank sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and simply beamed at them, temporarily rendered speechless.

"How are ya?" he whispered eventually.

"Fine. It was so quick," Myra smiled.

"Didn't seem quick, stood out there listenin' to ya yellin'," Hank grimaced. "I can't stand ya hurtin'."

Myra giggled. "Ya wanna hold yer son?"

Hank hesitated, remembering his terror of touching Zack when he had first been born. Ironically it had been Samantha whom he'd held some time later and not his own child.

"Ya won't hurt him," Myra said. "Babies're tougher than they look."

"Alright." Holding his breath, he lifted the small bundle out of Myra's arms and held the baby gently against his chest. The bright blue eyes seemed to stare right into his and he told himself the boy already knew he was his father. "What're we gonna call him?" he asked now.

"I hadn't really thought yet," Myra said. "I wanted to make sure he arrived safe first."

"What was yer pa's name?" asked Hank. "Ain't namin' him after none of my bunch."

"He was called George," Myra said.

"Good name," Hank nodded. "George Lawson."

"What about a middle name?" wondered Myra.

"Zack ain't got one. Nor do I."

"Well, I have one."

"Do ya?" Hank said in surprise.

"Yeah, it's Lois." Myra laughed again. "And Samantha's is Louise. Don't think either of them'd suit George though. What about Henry?"

"Ya know anyone called Henry?" Hank frowned.

"No, but fellas called Henry are often Hank for short; it'd be nice to have his middle name after his pa's."

"George Henry Lawson." Hank beamed proudly now. "I'm gonna do everythin' right this time. He's gonna know who is pa is startin' from now."

Tears sprang into Myra's eyes as she looked at the pair of them and as if on cue, George suddenly screwed up his face and let out a piercing yell.

"Oh, what's wrong with him?" Hank said anxiously.

"He's probably just ready for his first meal," smiled Myra, reaching out to take the baby back.

"Ya want me to get Michaela?"

"No, I think I can manage this part."

"Should I go out?"

"Not unless ya want to."

Hank who had been about to get up and leave the room, stayed where he was, watching in fascination as George latched onto Myra's breast, his eyes closed now. Afterwards he slept and Hank took him from Myra, carefully lowering him into the crib beside the bed so she could rest too.

Despite Myra's best efforts to stay awake and chat, she found after a few minutes that she was unable to keep her eyes open any longer. Hank left her to sleep and went back downstairs where Michaela and Sully were waiting. Michaela told him that the birth had been very straightforward and that Myra should only need to stay over the one night at the clinic so long as Hank took her and the baby home by wagon the following day.

"Have ya got a name for him yet?" asked Sully.

"George Henry Lawson," Hank said proudly. "After Myra's pa and me."

"I'm so happy for you both," Michaela smiled. "I know Samantha's excited about being a big sister."

Hank stayed talking for a few minutes and then headed to the Gold Nugget to celebrate, promising to return later and spend the night at the clinic with Myra and their baby son.

Late the next morning, Hank walked home and fetched the wagon while Michaela helped Myra get ready to leave the clinic. By the time Hank returned, she was waiting in the examination room with George in her arms, her face bright with happiness and excitement. Horace had called in to say he had taken Samantha to school and would collect her in the afternoon and drop her off at the Lawson house.

Samantha adored George the minute she saw him. Ever since she had been told she was going to get a little brother or sister, she had been convinced it would be a brother. She helped Myra every evening after school and on the weekends with the baby and gave him her beloved and rather well-worn old pink rabbit for his first toy until Hank exchanged it for a brown bear, convinced that the week-old baby boy would develop a liking for pink.

The following week, the now twenty-year-old Zack came to visit from Denver. He had seen Samantha a number of times now, but was keen to meet his little brother. Zack had left the school he had spent so many years at just a few months before and now rented rooms in a house run by an elderly widow. The deaf boy who had been his friend right from his first day at school lived in the same building and the pair occasionally held exhibitions of their work and sold their sketches and paintings, making a reasonable living.

Now it was Sunday and the Lawson family of five attended the picnic after church for the first time together. Over the past couple of years Hank had succumbed to church to please Myra and actually come to realise that when religion wasn't rammed down his throat as it had been as a child, he did believe in God.

As they sat on a colourful quilt stitched by Myra and some of her friends, Zack playing with Samantha and Myra holding George in her arms, most of the town came to them in ones and twos and groups to see the baby. Hank found himself bursting with pride as he looked at his wife, his two children and Samantha who was as good as his. Everything he had now was what he had always wanted and convinced himself he would never have.

'Loren's right, I have gone soft,' he thought to himself with a grin. 'At least some of the time.'

"Hank?" Myra said.

"What?"

"Yer miles away, sat there grinnin' to yerself."

Hank smirked. "Just thinkin'."

"About what?"

"How lucky I am." He leaned over and gave her a light kiss.

Myra smiled. "I'm lucky too."

"Pa!" Samantha interrupted suddenly. "Will ya come and play ball with me and Zack?"

"Sure, honey." Hank got to his feet and went to join in the game; to be the father Jorgen had never been to him.


End file.
